The Family Business
by Demolition.Lover.14
Summary: I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. I have a teenage daughter. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.
1. Chapter 1

_**1.**_

"So," she said. "is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe that we got an _eviction notice_?"

Slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes and raised his head from its spot on the arm of the sofa, looking at the letter his teenage daughter was brandishing. With a quiet snort, he shut his eyes again.

"I hardly thought it was important," he muttered. Her eyes widening, Elspeth Holmes stared at her father incredulously, still clutching the letter in her hand. The envelope had been handed to her by their landlord on her way in and she thought nothing of it until she opened it, knowing that if she didn't, then the letter would go unread forever.

So imagine her surprise when the first words she read were 'eviction notice' in big, bold letters. The fact that her father remained lying on the sofa, his eyes shut and two nicotine patches stuck on his arm, completely disinterested, annoyed her even more.

"How is this not important?" she demanded. "Did you know we were going to get this?"

"I suspected it."

With a huff, Elspeth skimmed the letter a second time. "You haven't been paying rent," she said flatly, letting her arm drop to her side. "_Dad_."

Sensing her distress, Sherlock sat up and swung his legs so his feet were planted on the floor. Elspeth's cheeks were red and her lips were pressed into a tight line, blinking rapidly to keep back the tears that were threatening to fill up her eyes.

He knew why she was upset. This had been their home for years; Elspeth went to college, she had friends, she'd spent months getting her room just right, and now they had to move again.

"Don't worry about it," Sherlock said calmly. She gave him an unimpressed glance, one eyebrow raised and her lips pouting slightly.

"Easier said than done," she retorted.

Sherlock frowned at her, opening his mouth to say something, but Elspeth turned her back on him; she picked up the piles of bills that were tucked under the fruit bowel, looked at them and then threw them into the bin.

"We won't need them anymore," she muttered, scrunching up the eviction letter and throwing that it into the bin as well. "Or this." Elspeth started taking the various letters and reminders that were on the fridge door down, throwing them into the bin as well. "Or this, or this, or this," she chanted.

Sherlock, who had risen to his feet, watched Elspeth stride down the corridor and then followed her into her room, where she opened her wardrobe doors and started flinging her clothes onto her bed.

"Ellie."

"I might as well start packing now," she said, still striding between her wardrobe and her bed. "We only have a week."

His lips tilting into a wry grin, Sherlock said, "221B Baker Street."

Elspeth paused, clutching one of her favourite dresses by the shoulders and slowly turning to face her father.

"What?"

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock repeated. "It's a nice little place in Central London, I'm sure you remember it."

"Mrs Hudson's flat," Elspeth verified.

"Obviously."

Gradually, Elspeth folded the dress she was holding and turned to put it down on her bed, where she stood with her back turned to Sherlock for a few seconds.

She then whirled around again, throwing the nearest thing – it happened to be a pot full of pencils – at Sherlock, who stepped to the side and watched it hit the wall behind him. It left a large chip in the paint and the one of the pencils snapped as they rolled down the corridor; Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Elspeth.

"I hope you don't intend on throwing your belongings at the wall in Baker Street."

"No," Elspeth grumbled, crossing her skinny arms and glaring at him. "Mrs Hudson would kill me if I did." She pursed her lips together. "I wasn't even aiming for the wall."

"I know."

"Are you certain that we're moving to 221B? We're not going to end up squatting or something like that?"

"I'm certain."

Taking in a deep breath, Elspeth uncrossed her arms and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing at the pile of clothes on her bed. "Alright," she finally said. "Go away, I have to pack."

And, before Sherlock could say anything, Elspeth shut the door on him.

* * *

"How do you feel about the violin?"

John Watson was startled by the abrupt question, glancing over at Mike just in case this strange man – he didn't even know his name! – was talking to him. But Mike continued to smile smugly.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. I have a teenage daughter." The man turned to look at John. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

He gave John a forced smile, who stared at him blankly for a few seconds.

"Oh, you . . . you told him about me?" John asked Mike.

"Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did," the man answered, picking up his coat and pulling it on. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?" John demanded. He still didn't know the man's name.

Ignoring the question, the man proceeded to wrap his scarf around his neck, checking his phone as he did so.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He started to stride past John. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock," he continued. "Sorry, I've got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

Riding crop? John frowned, but thought best not to ask.

"Is that it?"

The man had been opening the door when John posed the question, so he slowly turned back to the doctor and looked at him inquiringly.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

Incredulous, John looked towards Mike for help; he received none. His friend continued to smile smugly, watching the strange curly haired man standing by the door.

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name," John pointed out. In his opinion, that was a very big problem.

The younger man looked at him closely for a few seconds before speaking again.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." He smiled smugly. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

Turning around, he walked towards the door and opened it, striding out. He then leaned back into the room.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B, Baker Street," he told John. "Afternoon."

The door swung shut as Sherlock Holmes left the room; John looked at Mike in disbelief, lost for words, and Mike smiled back.

"Yeah, he's always like that."

* * *

221B Baker Street. John limped down the street, leaning against his cane as he gazed at the brass numbers thoughtfully, and a taxi pulled up on the curb when he went to knock on the front door.

"Hello," Sherlock called, leaning in through the taxi window and handing the driver money, thanking him.

"Ah, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."

John shook his hand, turning to look back at 221B. "Well this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."

"Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour," Sherlock explained. "A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no." Sherlock smiled. "I ensured it."

John barely had time to comprehend this before the front door opened and Mrs Hudson, a small elderly woman with a wide smile, greeted Sherlock cheerfully, embracing him. Sherlock hugged her briefly.

After the necessary introductions between Mrs Hudson and John, Sherlock trotted up the steps to the first floor, stopping to wait for John, who struggled to keep up. Once John had reached the top step, Sherlock opened the door and revealed the living room.

It was nice. Sweeping his eyes over the furniture and boxes that held various possessions, John nodded to himself.

"Well, this could be nice. Very nice indeed."

"Yes, I think so, my thoughts precisely." Sherlock looked around happily. "So I went straight ahead and moved in," he said at the same time as John said, "soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out."

There was an awkward pause as John realised that the 'rubbish' were actually Sherlock's possessions. He didn't have long to be embarrassed; the living room door opened again and a young woman walked into the room.

"Jeez, Dad, you could've cleared the mess up a bit," she said with a grin. She was rather pretty, John noticed, with masses of wavy hair and hazel eyes that weren't quite green but not quite brown. When she spotted John, her grin turned slightly sheepish. "Hi."

"Hello," John replied, looking at Sherlock, who was making a poor attempt at straightening up the flat.

"Elspeth, this is John Watson. John, this is my daughter, Elspeth."

"Or Ellie, I don't mind which," Elspeth said with a shrug. "Your bedroom is the second one upstairs. I hope you don't mind but I kinda stole the bigger one."

"No, no, that's fine," John assured her with a smile, looking around. Something on the mantelpiece caught his attention. "That's a skull."

"Friend of mine," Sherlock answered. He frowned. "Well, I say friend . . ."

"My ex-boyfriend," Elspeth mouthed when John glanced at her. He paled slightly.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms," Mrs Hudson told him with a smile.

"Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Mrs Turner next door's got married ones."

Elspeth didn't bother hiding her amusement, laughing as she sat down on the sofa, her legs flung over the arm, and John looked at Sherlock for help. Sherlock seemed oblivious to the insinuations.

"Sherlock, the mess you've made!" Mrs Hudson continued, also oblivious to John's dismay. Dropping the matter, he plumped up a cushion and lowered himself into the armchair. Elspeth's laughter died down into helpless giggles as she sat up.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," John told Sherlock. For some reason, it set Elspeth off again; she started to laugh hysterically.

"Ignore her," Sherlock said, glancing at Elspeth. She grinned at him. "Find anything interesting?"

"I found your website. The Science of Deduction."

Sherlock smiled proudly. "What did you think?" he asked. Seeing the look on John's face, his smile fell.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?"

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same," Mrs Hudson said, walking from the kitchen to the living room and gazing at the newspaper.

"Four," Sherlock muttered, standing by the window. Flinging her legs over the side of the sofa, Elspeth joined him, pulling back the curtain. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?"

Sherlock turned around as Lestrade strode up the stairs, giving John a polite nod before looking at Sherlock.

"Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" Sherlock nodded. "This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson."

Both Sherlock and Elspeth grimaced at the mention of him, while John was completely baffled by the exchange. "Anderson won't work with me," Sherlock said.

"Well, he won't be your assistant," Lestrade said.

"I _need_ an assistant."

"I'll come," Elspeth piped up hopefully.

"No," Sherlock snapped. Huffing, Elspeth glanced at Lestrade with wide eyes, her bottom lip pouting slightly.

"Sorry, Ellie, not this time. Will you come?"

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

"Thank you."

Waiting until Lestrade was gone, Sherlock clenched his fists triumphantly, leaping into the air and whirling around in an excited circle before pressing a kiss on Elspeth's forehead.

"Brilliant!" he cried. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," she reminded him.

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

Sherlock darted from the room, leaving Elspeth to flop dejectedly on the sofa.

"Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same," Mrs Hudson said fondly. She smiled at John. "But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" John said loudly, making both Mrs Hudson and Elspeth jump. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing . . ."

"I understand, dear; I've got a hip."

"Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you," John said over his shoulder.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got them," he added.

"Not your housekeeper," Elspeth reminded him with a small smile. John smiled back, picking up a newspaper and beginning to read about the suicides Sherlock was investigating.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock said from the doorway. "In fact you're an Army doctor."

"Yes."

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."

"Yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes," John said quietly. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh God, yes."

"Can I come?" Elspeth asked, following Sherlock and John out of the room.

"No," Sherlock called over his shoulder.

"Are you all going out?" Mrs Hudson inquired. Sherlock turned to face her with a wide grin.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Taking her by the shoulders, Sherlock pressed a kiss to Mrs Hudson's cheek.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent?" Sherlock cried. "The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!"


	2. Chapter 2

_**2.**_

Stretched out across the sofa, a sketchbook on her lap, Elspeth added shading to the drawing of Sherlock while the TV played a rerun of _Friends_ in the background. Mrs Hudson had gone back downstairs to her flat, so she was stuck in the flat on her own, wondering when Sherlock and John would come back.

She liked John. He was a nice, sensible man who wasn't put off by Sherlock's strange habits or her general presence in their home. Elspeth knew she had every right to be there, but she sometimes got the feeling that people only put up with her because she was Sherlock's daughter; they probably all saw her as another silly teenager.

Scowling, Elspeth flipped shut the sketchbook and put it down on the arm of the sofa. She hated being labelled as Sherlock's daughter. She was _Elspeth Holmes._ A _person._

At the sound of footsteps bounding up the steps – only one pair of shoes, Elspeth noted – she picked up her sketchbook again and pretended to concentrate on the drawing, looking surprised when Sherlock burst into the room.

"That was quick," she said. "Even for you." She frowned. "Where's John?"

"I left him behind," Sherlock muttered, walking through to the kitchen and putting the obnoxiously bright pink suitcase he'd been carrying onto a chair.

"_Dad_!" Elspeth said incredulously, swinging her legs over the side of the sofa and staring at him. "The man's got a limp, you can't just leave him behind!"

"He's a grown man, he's perfectly capable of getting a taxi."

Removing his coat and scarf, Sherlock reached into his pocket and typed out a quick text, looking at Elspeth as he pressed the SEND button.

"Happy now?" he asked sarcastically.

"What did you say?"

"To come at once if convenient."

"It might not be convenient though," Elspeth pointed out. "You did leave him Brixton on his own."

Scowling, Sherlock sent another text. "If inconvenient, come anyway," he read. It wasn't much of an improvement but Elspeth couldn't complain.

She watched Sherlock open a drawer, searching through its contents, and joined him in the kitchen, silently opening the drawer next to him and handing him the box of nicotine patches.

"You're welcome," she said pointedly when he took the box from her, taking three patches out. "You smell like a bin, by the way."

Sherlock ignored her, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves so he could apply the patches to his arm, lying down on the sofa. Huffing, Elspeth picked up her sketchbook and curled up in Sherlock's armchair.

They sat in silence; Sherlock shut his eyes and got lost in his thoughts while Elspeth turned a new page in her sketchbook and started to sketch his long figure stretched out across the sofa.

"He'll be alright, won't he?"

Cracking an eye open, Sherlock peered at Elspeth and raised an eyebrow.

"John," she explained.

"He'll be fine."

He shut his eyes again, pressing his hand to the three nicotine patches so the substance would be released quickly, eyes snapping open again suddenly as Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. Elspeth glanced at him when he let out a noisy breath.

The door opened. Elspeth smiled at John as he walked into the living room but he didn't notice, staring down at Sherlock's reclining form.

"What are you doing?"

"Nicotine patch. Helps me think." Removing his hand from his arm, Sherlock showed John the patches. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

"Good news for your lungs though," Elspeth murmured, her eyes flickering between Sherlock and her sketchbook. "Stay still, Dad."

"Is that three patches?" John asked.

"It's a three patch problem."

John looked at Elspeth, his eyebrows raised, as if to ask whether that was normal behaviour for Sherlock. She looked back at him with a frown and then looked back at Sherlock, her lips pressed together.

"Well? You asked me to come. I'm assuming it's important."

After a few seconds, Sherlock finally opened his eyes and said, "oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" John repeated.

"I don't want to use mine, there's always a chance that the number will be recognised."

"It's on the website," Elspeth added.

"Mrs Hudson's got a phone. _Elspeth _has a phone," John pointed out irritably.

"Nope, Dad's not allowed anywhere near my phone," Elspeth said. "Last time he used mine, I got death threats from a serial killer for a fortnight." She said it in such a matter of fact way that John was regretting returning to 221B.

"I was on the other side of London," he told them.

"There was no hurry."

Sherlock looked almost serene as he gazed up at the ceiling, holding his palm up expectantly, and John scowled as he stormed forwards, slapping the phone into Sherlock's hand.

"So what's this about? The case?"

"Her case," Sherlock murmured.

"_Her _case?"

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously," Sherlock said, opening his eyes again. "The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"Okay, he took her case. So?" John asked.

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it." Sherlock rose his voice and said, "on my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text."

"You brought me here . . . to send a text," John said tightly.

"Text, yes. The number on my desk."

Snatching the phone from Sherlock, John ignored the number on the table and wandered to the window.

"Are you alright?" Elspeth asked, looking up and seeing John's unhappy expression; she'd hate it for he and Sherlock to fall out already.

"Yeah," John said quietly, giving her a small smile. "I just met a friend of yours," he added in Sherlock's direction.

"A _friend?_" Sherlock and Elspeth repeated incredulously, wearing identical expressions of mild confusion. It was slightly disconcerting for John to see it.

"An enemy."

Though Sherlock visibly relaxed, Elspeth didn't look any less confused.

"Oh, which one?"

"Your _arch-_enemy, according to him. Do people even _have _arch-enemies?"

"Depends on how people you piss off," Elspeth muttered. "Did he offer you money?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?" Sherlock demanded.

"No."

"Pity. We could've split the fee. Think it through next time."

Glancing at Elspeth, who was sitting and texting someone on her phone, John frowned. "Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number."

Elspeth blanked out as Sherlock instructed John what to text, focusing on her own text that she was quickly typing out.

**Kidnapping is illegal, you know – EH.**

"Move," Sherlock ordered as he strode back from the kitchen, carrying the bright pink suitcase in one hand, forcing Elspeth to move from his armchair so he could take her place with the case on a chair in front of him. She scowled, flopping onto the sofa.

"That's the pink's lady's case," John pointed out, his voice stammering slightly. "That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously." Sherlock leaned forwards, carefully studying the contents of the case while John continued to stare at him. "Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill her," Sherlock added sarcastically.

"I never said you did."

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact I that have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

"Now and then, yes. Elspeth only encourages the rumours."

"I do not!" Elspeth cried, pretending to look offended; the look was ruined by the wide grin she was trying to stifle. She didn't add that she did like to encourage the rumours or wind Anderson up by implying her father had something to do with whatever dead body was lying on the ground.

"How did you get this?" John demanded.

"By looking."

"Where?"

Elspeth didn't listen to Sherlock's explanation of how he came to find the pink suitcase. Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she took it out, smirking when she read the text she'd just received.

**I'm sure Dr Watson would be pleased to hear that you're defending his honour – MH. **

". . . and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed," Sherlock finished. "It took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"You got _all_ that because you realised the case would be pink?"

"Well it _had _to be pink, obviously."

"Obviously," Elspeth echoed with a small smile.

"Why didn't _I _think of that?" John asked quietly, almost to himself, and Sherlock rolled your eyes.

"Because you're an idiot," he said. John looked at him, startled, and Sherlock responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Don't look like that. Practically everyone is. Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From her case? How _could _I?"

"Ellie, come here."

Elspeth rolled her eyes but she didn't say anything as she climbed to her feet and trudged across the room, where she perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair, gazing down at the contents of the case. She could see clothes and a book that looked like a smutty romance novel.

"Her phone," Elspeth finally said, looking up at Sherlock. He smiled back.

"Her phone," he confirmed. "Where's her phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one – that's her number there; you just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at home," John suggested.

Sherlock shifted from his strange position of crouching on his chair to sitting down properly. "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She _never_ leaves her phone at home."

As if realising what Sherlock had told him, John looked down at the phone he'd used to text the number on Sherlock's desk.

"Why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is: where is her phone _now_?"

"She could have lost it."

"Yes, or . . . ?"

"Or the murderer has her phone," Elspeth murmured, and a long silence followed.

* * *

"Ow!" Elspeth swore loudly, cradling her hand against her chest as she used the other to turn on the kitchen tap, holding the burned skin under the cool water. It wasn't a serious burn, just a brush of skin against the hot pan, but it still stung and Elspeth had to stifle a particularly vulgar word as she dried her hand off with a tea towel.

Sherlock and John were gone, _again._ Sherlock had said something about John filling in for his skull and shouted over his shoulder as they left that Elspeth would have to make her own dinner, ignoring her pleads to let her go with them.

John had given a small, sympathetic smile as he left but Elspeth hadn't returned it. She was getting tired of being left behind.

"Oh crap!" she yelped, smelling her dinner burning. Snatching the pan handle, Elspeth lifted it from the oven, quickly scraping the contents into the waiting bowl. She stirred it around, sniffed it and then decided that it wasn't as burned as she'd initially suspected.

Elspeth was a competent cook. Mrs Hudson had been the one to teach her but the elderly lady nearly lost the will to live when Elspeth started her improvisation, throwing in every spice and herb she could find so she could experiment.

Eating a spoonful of the paella she'd made, Elspeth made a 'hmm' noise under her breath and settled on the sofa.

Elspeth was halfway through another episode of _Friends _when she heard someone knocking at the front door and she frowned, listening to Mrs Hudson's startled outcry at whoever was at the door.

"Hi Ellie," Lestrade said as he strode into the living room, accompanied by several other police officers. She looked up in shock.

"What's going on?"

"It's a . . ." Lestrade looked at a loss for what to say. Elspeth raised an eyebrow. "Drugs bust," he finally said, looking triumphant.

"So you be a good girl and stay where you are," Anderson said as he passed. "We don't want you interfering with the evidence."

"Why are you even here?" Elspeth asked rudely.

"Alright, less of the agro please. Anderson, do your job," Lestrade ordered, preventing the inevitable argument. Elspeth's sharp eyes followed Anderson as he scowled and walked away, wearing her own annoyed scowl. "Something smells nice," Lestrade added conversationally, settling in an armchair.

In response, Elspeth put her dinner down on the table and directed her scowl at him, crossing her arms.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded, striding into the flat with John close behind. Elspeth noticed the absence of his walking stick. He looked at Elspeth. "Are you alright?"

"Don't worry, we haven't been interrogating her. We knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat. _Especially_ when Ellie is on her own."

"And you can't withhold evidence. I _didn't _break your flat," Lestrade added irritably.

"Well, what do you call this then?"

"It's a drugs bust."

John, who had been silent for most of the conversation, marvelling at Sherlock's protective nature of Elspeth, snorted then. "Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"

"John," Sherlock said quietly, turning his back so Elspeth wouldn't see his uncomfortable expression.

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

"John, you probably want to shut up _now_," Sherlock hissed, holding John's gaze for a long moment as silence fell over them.

"No," John said quietly.

"What?"

"_You_?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, _Anderson's _my sniffer dog."

If Sherlock had been irritated before, the mention of Anderson had him positively boiling; John couldn't tell if it was because Sherlock had an undeniable hatred for the man or if it was because he was in the flat with Elspeth while she was unsupervised.

Elspeth, however, was grinning widely, picking up the nearest sketchbook so she could scribble a rough caricature of Anderson looking like a sniffer dog.

"Anderson, what are _you _doing here on a drugs bust?"

"Oh, I volunteered," Anderson said, venom dripping off his words. Elspeth's glare was so fierce that he turned his back on them again.

"They all did," Lestrade said. "They're not strictly _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

"Are these _human_ eyes?" Sally demanded incredulously, holding the jar up.

"Put those back!" Sherlock ordered.

"They were in the microwave!"

"It's an experiment."

"Keep looking, guys," Lestrade said, standing up and approaching Sherlock. "Or you could help us properly and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish."

"Well I'm _dealing_ with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?"

Sherlock, who had been pacing angrily, stopped and glared at Lestrade. "Oh, what, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," Lestrade pointed out quietly, noticing Elspeth had stopped in her drawing to watch the two men warily, her pencil hovering over the page.

"I am clean!" Sherlock said loudly.

"Is your flat? All of it?"

"I don't even smoke."

"Neither do I."

The two men had their cuffs unbuttoned and their sleeves rolled up, showing each other the patches on their lower arms. John frowned, unable to comprehend that Sherlock had once been an addict, and Elspeth sat with her sketchbook pressed against her chest and her legs tucked under her chin, gazing up at her father with unwavering eyes.

"So let's work together," Lestrade said as he rolled his sleeve down again. "We've found Rachel."

"Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

While Lestrade and Sherlock spoke about Rachel, Jennifer's stillborn daughter, John shifted a bit closer to Elspeth, who looked rather withdrawn.

"Are you alright?" he asked her. Her eyes widening slightly, Elspeth nodded.

"Why would she still be upset?"

John stared at Sherlock, who slowly realised that the whole flat had fallen silent and everyone had stopped in their actions to also stare at him, before glancing awkwardly at John.

"Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah."

"But if you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?" Sherlock asked, stepping closer to John.

"Please, God, let me live."

"Oh, use your imagination!"

"I don't have to," John said quietly. Blinking a few times, Sherlock shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable.

"Yes, but if you were clever, really clever . . . " His voice trailed off thoughtfully. "Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers. She was clever." Sherlock started to pace. "She's trying to _tell _us something!"

* * *

Thank you TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, irikedaworld9654 and xxxMadameMysteryxxx for reviewing!


	3. Chapter 3

_**3.**_

Elspeth frowned, still clutching her sketchpad, and looked up as Mrs Hudson came to stand in the doorway.

"Your taxi's here, Sherlock," she said.

"I didn't order a taxi," Sherlock snapped back. "Go away."

"Oh dear. They're making such a terrible mess," Mrs Hudson murmured. "What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson," John told her.

"But they're just for my hip! They're herbal soothers!"

Elspeth snorted quietly; if those were the sort of drugs they were interested in, she'd have to clear out the bathroom cupboard. They had every single type of medication Sherlock could get his hands on, and he sometimes stole pills from the hospital, much to Elspeth's chagrin.

"Shut up, everybody, shut up!" Sherlock suddenly yelled. "Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"My _face _is?" Anderson demanded incredulously.

"Everybody quiet and still," Lestrade shouted. "Anderson, turn your back!" Anderson started to protest but Lestrade just snapped, "your _back,_ now, please!"

John glanced at Elspeth, who was sitting very still, completely silent. If it wasn't for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, then he wouldn't have thought that she was breathing.

"Come on, think," Sherlock said to himself. "Quick!"

"What about your taxi?" Mrs Hudson asked despairingly.

"MRS HUDSON!" Sherlock shouted furiously, turning around to face her and making Elspeth jump. With a startled gasp, Mrs Hudson hurried back down the stairs.

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped. His eyes lighting up, he slowly turned to gaze down at Elspeth with a wide grin. "Oh," he said. "She was clever, clever, yes!" Whirling around again, he turned around to face everyone. "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't _lose_ her phone, she never lost it. She _planted_ it on him." He started to pace again. "When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked.

"What . . . ? What do you mean, how?"

Lestrade hesitated slightly before shrugging helplessly.

"Rachel!"

Sherlock looked around triumphantly but was met with only blank stares. His eyes rested on Rosie and he raised his eyebrows expectantly. She raised her own eyebrow in return.

"Don't you see? Rachel!"

No one responded. Elspeth's lips twitched at the incredulous expression on her father's face.

"Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing," he sneered. "Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?" John asked, mimicking Sherlock's stern tone.

"John, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address."

John read out the email address and Elspeth moved to sit on a chair next to Sherlock, watching as he typed the details into the website. Rachel was the password.

"So we can read her emails. So what?" Anderson scoffed.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street," Sherlock said, not even bothering to look at Anderson. Elspeth laughed. "We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade pointed out.

"We know he didn't. Come on, come on, quickly!"

"Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver . . ." Mrs Hudson said meekly, lingering in the doorway.

"Mrs Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?"

"Dad," Elspeth scolded, looking at him in shock. Sherlock ignored her and John dropped into the now vacant seat next to her, listening to Sherlock's insistences that they had to move fast. Elspeth drummed her fingers against the table while she bit the nails of her other hand, flinching when her teeth scraped the skin, and froze when the location of Jennifer Wilson's phone came up on the screen.

"Sherlock," John said quietly.

"What is it? Quickly, where?" Sherlock demanded, spinning around.

"Here," Elspeth whispered.

"How can it be here? _How_?"

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere," Lestrade reasoned, much to Sherlock's dismay.

"What, and I didn't notice it? Me? I didn't notice?"

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," John told Lestrade.

"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim . . ."

Realisation dawned on Sherlock as he remembered his words to John in the restaurant; _who passes unnoticed wherever they go?_ It made so much sense now, everything was so _clear. _In his pocket, his phone alerted him of a text and Sherlock took it from his pocket.

**Come with me.**

* * *

"So you risked your life just to kill four strangers," Sherlock murmured, his eyes never wavering from the taxi drivers. Jeff, his name was, and he looked like an innocent old man. "Why?"

Jeff nodded at the bottles. "Time to play."

"Oh I _am _playing. This is _my_ turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no-one to tell you."

Jeff tried not to fidget under Sherlock's scrutinizing gaze while Sherlock continued his deductions; he was an estranged father, one who lost his kids but still loved them. Three years ago, Jeff was told that he was dying.

It was all so _clear._

"You don't have long though," Sherlock said. "Am I right?"

"Aneurism." Jeff lifted his hand and tapped the side of his head. "Right in 'ere. Any breath could be my last."

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people," Sherlock said with a frown.

"I've _outlived _four people. That's the most fun you can 'ave on an aneurism."

"No," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children."

"You _are _good, ain't you?"

"But _how_?"

"Tell me, Mr 'olmes, you're a father." Jeff leaned forwards across the table, folding his hands together. "What would you do if _you_ were dying and you didn't 'ave much to leave to your girl? Pretty little thing, she is," he added. "I saw 'er in the living room. Spitting image of you."

"_How_?" Sherlock repeated stiffly, also leaning forwards, trying not to scowl at the mention of Elspeth.

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs."

"Or serial killing."

"You'd be surprised."

"Surprise me."

"I 'ave a sponsor."

Sherlock frowned. "You have a what?"

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think."

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?"

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes?" Jeff countered instantly. Sherlock stared at him. "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man . . . and they're so much more than that."

"What do you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?" Sherlock asked, his nose twitching slightly in irritation. It was a strange habit of his, one that Elspeth loved to mimic and laugh at, but now Sherlock barely noticed.

"There's a name no-one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose."

* * *

Sherlock was sitting on the steps of the ambulance, an obnoxiously bright orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders, when he heard Elspeth's raised voice insisting that the paramedics let her through to see him. It didn't take her long to break through the barrier of arms.

"Hello," Sherlock said with a small smile, standing up. Elspeth darted forwards, flung her arms around him and buried her face into his chest, clinging to him as she shook. Sherlock put an arm around her shoulders, gently rubbing her back.

"I thought you were _dead_," she mumbled against his chest.

Sherlock laughed quietly, stopping when Elspeth peeled herself away to glare at him feebly, rubbing the tears away with the back of her hands.

"I'm fine," he promised. Elspeth nodded, hugged him again and then grinned.

"Nice blanket," she teased.

"It's for shock," Lestrade said, striding over. "Sorry, Sherlock, we couldn't keep this one away." He smiled fondly at Elspeth and she responded by shuffling closer to Sherlock, leaning against him.

"I'm not _in _shock."

"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."

"So, the shooter. No sign?"

"Shooter?" Elspeth repeated, lifting her head. "What? Did you get shot?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Ellie, I wouldn't be standing here with this _blanket_ –" Scowling, Sherlock threw the blanket off his shoulders and into Elspeth's arms. "– if I had been shot."

"Whoever it was cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but . . ." Lestrade's voice trailed off and he shrugged. "Got nothing to go on."

"Oh I wouldn't say that."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Alright, what have you got?"

Sherlock launched into his description of the shooter – a man acclimatised to violence, strong morals, someone with a history of military service – and his voice trailed off as he looked over at John, who was waiting by the police tape and smiling at Sherlock with an innocent look.

"Actually, do you know what? Ignore me," Sherlock corrected.

"Sorry?"

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking. Ellie, wait here for a minute."

"Where are you going?" Lestrade demanded in exasperation as Sherlock started to stride towards John. Elspeth huffed.

"I just need to talk about the rent."

"But I've still got questions for you!"

"Oh what _now_? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" Snatching the bright orange blanket from Elspeth, Sherlock brandished it at Lestrade as if to prove his point. "_And _I just caught you a serial killer."

"A dead serial killer," Elspeth mumbled, catching the blanket when Sherlock bundled it up and threw it back to her. Lestrade sighed, dismissed Sherlock and looked at Elspeth with a long suffering look that she could only grin at, still clutching the blanket in her arms. She was tempted to take it home.

"Good shot," Sherlock said quietly to John.

"Yes," John agreed, trying (and failing) to look innocent as he nodded. "It must've been, through that window."

"Well, _you'd_ know. You need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

Looking slightly nervous, John quickly glanced around, hoping that no one could hear their conversation.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course I'm alright."

"You have just _killed_ a man."

"But he wasn't a very _nice_ man."

"Who wasn't?" Elspeth asked, seemingly popping out of nowhere and looking between the two men with her wide eyes, nearly giving John a heart attack in the process. She had an uncanny ability of sneaking up on people.

"The cabbie," John explained. "A bloody awful one as well."

"That's true, he was a bad cabbie. You should've seen the route he took to get us here!"

Though John managed to suppress his glee, Elspeth's yelp of laughter attracted a lot of attention despite her slapping her hands over her mouth and trying to hide it, burying her face in Sherlock's arm as he grinned down at her.

"Stop, we can't giggle," John said. "It's a crime scene! Stop it! Sorry," he added quickly when Sally walked past, giving them all a slightly disturbed glance. "It's the nerves."

"What were you doing in there anyway?" Elspeth asked when she'd finally stopped laughing.

"It was a choice," Sherlock replied. "of two pills. One of them would kill whoever took it."

"And you were going to take one of them," John said dryly. "You risk your life to prove that you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

Sherlock smiled widely, looking delighted that he'd finally found someone who understood him, and Elspeth smirked.

"Dinner?" he asked.

"Starving," John answered. Elspeth shrugged, grimacing slightly; there was something about her father having a near death experience that ruined her appetite.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two," Sherlock said as they started to walk. "You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

Pausing, Elspeth bundled the blanket up in her arms and threw it into the open window of a car, looking slightly mournful at the loss. It wasn't a particularly pleasant colour but it was thick and warm.

Elspeth looked up, a wide grin spreading across her face when she saw the man speaking to Sherlock and John, neither of whom looked happy to see him.

"People will suffer," he was saying as Elspeth approached, putting her hands deep into her pockets and nudging her way between Sherlock and John. "and you know how it always upset Mummy."

Frowning, John suddenly felt unsure if he'd heard right. _Mummy?_

"_I _upset her? _Me_?" Sherlock demanded. "It wasn't _me _that upset her, Mycroft."

"You did a bit," Elspeth murmured, earning identical glares from Mycroft and Sherlock. She shrugged in response. "Just saying."

"No, wait, Mummy?" John asked, his eyes flickering between the three of them. "Who's Mummy?"

"Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." While John stared at Mycroft in amazement, Sherlock added, "putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft said smugly, ignoring Elspeth's sceptical gaze.

"He's your _brother_?"

"Of _course_ he's my brother."

"So he's not . . ."

"Not what?"

Mycroft, Sherlock and Elspeth all looked at John with frowns of confusion, and he shrugged in embarrassment.

"A criminal mastermind?"

"Close enough," Sherlock said.

"For goodness sake," Mycroft scoffed. "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He _is _the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis," Sherlock told John. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic."

Sherlock strode away and Elspeth grinned up at Mycroft before chasing after her father.

"That was fun," she said.

"It was, wasn't it?" Sherlock agreed.

"I think you're an idiot as well, though."

"I know."

"That won't stop you from risking your life though," Elspeth muttered dully. Stopping, Sherlock caught Elspeth by the arm and forced her to look up at him.

"I can't promise you that I will," he said seriously.

"I know. Can you promise to try?"

Sherlock hesitated before nodding, turning to John as he approached them.

"So, Chinese?"

"I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"You can't," Elspeth scoffed.

"Almost can," Sherlock argued. "You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?"

"In Afghanistan. There _was _an actual wound."

"Oh yeah, shoulder."

"Shoulder! I thought so."

"No you didn't."

"The left one."

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes you do."

John laughed and Sherlock smiled while Elspeth gazed up at her father with a small smile; it had been year since she'd seen him look so happy. John was going to be good for their little family, she decided.

"What are you so happy about anyway?" she asked Sherlock.

"Moriarty."

"What's Moriarty?"

"I've absolutely _no_ idea," Sherlock said cheerfully as he, Elspeth and John started to stride away from the crime scene, oblivious to Mycroft's decision to upgrade the surveillance status.

"Sorry sir," Anthea (or not-Anthea, as John came to think of her) said as she looked up from her Blackberry, her fingers hovering over the buttons. "Whose status?"

Watching his brother put his arm around Elspeth's shoulders, playfully pulling her closer to him as they walked with John, the three of them laughing, Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

* * *

Thank you TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Bookworm45669, irikedaworld9654 and Starcrier for reviewing! Now Study In Pink is finished, Elspeth will be getting more involved in the cases as they happen!


	4. Chapter 4

_**4.**_

The more time that John spent with them, the more he realised just how alike Sherlock and Elspeth were.

The first he noticed was the way they both ate like they'd gone for days without eating, and it was only then that he realised just how skinny Elspeth was. John had read about those models that starved themselves but he somehow couldn't relate that to the teenager in front of him, watching her as she shovelled another mouthful of noodles into her mouth.

He also saw that when Sherlock or Elspeth smiled, their eyes crinkled in the corner in the same way. It was quite endearing.

The two men tried to avoid the subject of the 'mysterious' shooter, and Sherlock somehow managed to satisfy Elspeth's endless curiosity when she asked continuous questions about it. John didn't know whose benefit it was for but he was thankful even so.

"We haven't scared you off, have we?" Elspeth asked him suddenly, her grin lopsided. John smiled back.

"No, no, not yet," he said, glancing at Sherlock. The younger man grinned to himself despite trying to hide it.

"Good. I don't want to move _again._"

Elspeth looked pointedly at Sherlock, who returned it with an annoyed glance.

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"Didn't Dad tell you? We got evicted from our last home."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Elspeth glared at him. They were a funny pair, John thought, but he didn't know if they were the sort of funny that made him want to laugh or funny peculiar.

"Dad didn't pay the rent," Elspeth added for John's benefit.

"Oh."

They finished their meals and when their plates were taken away, a small plate with three fortune cookies was put into the centre of the table. Elspeth grinned at Sherlock.

"Well?"

"Love, money and life," Sherlock listed in a bored tone. John stared at him in confusion.

"What?"

"Dad's predicting the fortunes," Elspeth explained, her grin widening as she reached out and picked up one of the cookies, breaking it open. "_Help, I'm being held prisoner in a fortune cookie factory!" _she read, laughing when Sherlock snatched the paper from her and read it, scowling.

"What does it really say?" John asked her.

"Something about finding my one true love or whatever," Elspeth said dismissively, waving her hand. "I don't believe it."

"In love or the fortune?"

"Both. Neither. I don't know." Elspeth's skinny shoulders hunched slightly as she shrugged. "It doesn't really matter."

John smiled at her scepticism, reaching out for his own fortune cookie. The slip of paper fell onto the table and he picked it up to read the fortune.

_There will be unexpected changes in your life. Embrace them._

His eyebrows furrowing slightly, John read and reread the fortune, his lips twitching into a slight smile as he folded the tiny piece of paper and tucked it into his pocket. He was unaware that Sherlock was watching him with his own smile.

"So apparently you're going to receive a lot of money soon," Elspeth said, craning her neck and reading Sherlock's fortune. "Yay."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock very gently pushed Elspeth's head away.

Sherlock paid, ignoring John's mild protests that he should contribute towards the meal, and held the door open for Elspeth and John to pass through. As they walked down the street, Elspeth looped her arm through her father's.

John smiled; he thought it was an affectionate gesture until Elspeth suddenly bound forwards to their front door, Sherlock's keys swinging in her hand.

"Pickpocketing run in the family, then?" John murmured to Sherlock.

"She has an unfortunate knack for it," Sherlock replied quietly.

"I know you're talking about me," Elspeth called over her shoulder, unlocking the front door and running up the steps.

"_About_ you, yes, not _to_ you," Sherlock called back. Elspeth stopped, spun around and stuck her tongue out at him.

Kicking her shoes off, Elspeth threw her coat over the back of a chair. "I'm going to bed. You should too, Dad."

"I'm not tired," Sherlock said in a distracted manner, picking up his laptop and sitting down with it.

"How long has it been since you slept?"

"Only two days, it's fine."

John stared at Sherlock incredulously.

"He's gone longer without it," Elspeth told him before walking through to the bathroom, locking herself in.

"I should probably go to be as well," John said somewhat awkwardly, unsure of what else to say despite everything that he and Sherlock had been through.

"Alright."

"Are you really not going to sleep?"

"No."

"Huh."

The bathroom door opened again and Elspeth wandered out, a bit of toothpaste on her chin.

"Chin," Sherlock said without looking up. With a self-conscious grin, Elspeth wiped her chin with the back of her hand.

"Night Dad, night John."

"Night," John said. Sherlock still didn't look up from his laptop.

That night, when John had changed into his pyjamas and lay down in his bed, he took a few minutes to gaze up at the ceiling and contemplate the events of the day.

His life definitely wasn't going to be the same now Sherlock and Elspeth Holmes had walked into it.

* * *

Elspeth didn't emerge from her room until late morning, her hair a dishevelled mess, and she hadn't quite woken up properly, which was why she bumped into the doorway on her first attempt of walking into the living room. Groaning sleepily, she clutched her forehead and shut her eyes.

"Morning," John greeted her cheerfully. Elspeth made a sleepy noise of protest, flopping onto the sofa.

"It's too early," she moaned, picking up a cushion and pressing it against her face as if to smother herself.

"Do you want some coffee?"

Elspeth nodded, lifting the cushion slightly so John could see her pout of self-pity. Smiling, he poured her a cup and put it down on the table.

"Where's Dad?" she asked sleepily, pushing herself up onto her elbows so she could drink her coffee.

"Bathroom."

"Did you sleep alright? No nightmares?"

"Slept like a log," John told her with a grin. Elspeth responded with her own lopsided grin.

"No sudden regrets? Most people have regrets."

"Not me."

Elspeth's grin widened but she hid it behind her coffee mug, sipping the drink and feeling its warmth flow through her, sighing gratefully as she sat up properly.

After the previous evening, it seemed so strangely domestic and ordinary to sit at the table with a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other, a rack of toast steadily cooling down in front of him. Still, John didn't mind. He embraced the normalcy of it; he had a funny feeling that it wouldn't last long.

Finally, Elspeth rose from her seat on the sofa, sitting down at the table with him and curling her long legs up to her chest, her bare toes parting slightly as she shifted in the chair. Reaching out, she picked up a piece of toast and started to pull off the crusts.

"You don't like the crusts?" John asked, amused.

"Nope. People always used to say that it would make my hair curl and I didn't want to end up like Dad." Huffing, Elspeth tucked a strand of her wild hair behind her ear. "Damn genes had another idea."

John laughed quietly, briefly wondering if all teenagers were odd or if it was just one of Elspeth's quirks.

"Morning," Elspeth called as Sherlock left the bathroom, his dressing gown billowing slightly.

"I thought I heard your voice. It's a bit early for you, isn't it?"

Elspeth stuck her tongue out, taking an angry bite out of her toast.

"If you must know," she said, scowling. "I'm going out."

"You're meeting your friends from college for lunch, I know," Sherlock said. "Don't worry, there's enough hot water for you to have a shower."

"Great. Don't touch the kitchen taps or I _will_ end you."

Sherlock smirked. It had only been once that he'd disturbed Elspeth's shower by interfering with the taps, therefore turning her blissfully warm water freezing cold, but she'd never forgiven him for it.

"College," John repeated curiously, looking up at Sherlock.

"Sixth form. She's in her first year."

"So she's smart."

"If you can consider three art subjects _smart,_ then yes, she is," Sherlock said with a slight sneer. It was no secret that he would've much preferred it if Elspeth had chosen more academic subjects for her education but she was just as stubborn as he was.

Elspeth didn't take long in the shower, emerging with a dressing gown wrapped around herself and her damp hair looking slightly less wild, and she quickly ran upstairs to get dressed. A few minutes later, Sherlock and John could hear her music playing.

While John continued to read the newspaper and Sherlock sat with his laptop on the table, occasionally making a comment regarding the emails he'd been sent, Elspeth spent a considerably longer time in her room than she did in the bathroom. They didn't say so, but neither man knew why it took teenage girls so long to get ready.

"Have you got my card?" Elspeth asked, her bright yellow satchel swinging on her shoulder. She was wearing a pair of very tight jeans and a baggy, stripy jumper that John could only assume was stylish at the present moment. Looking up, he saw that she'd traced her upper eyelid with eyeliner, adding small flicks in the corners of her eyes. "It wasn't in my purse," she added distractedly, picking up a pair of boots from by the windowsill.

"It's in my wallet," Sherlock replied. With a huff, Elspeth pulled on her boots and strode across the room, searching through the pockets of Sherlock's coat for his wallet. "You'll find that Mycroft has made a generous contribution towards your finances."

"How nice," Elspeth muttered, opening Sherlock's wallet and taking her card out. "Why do you even have this?"

"It's my responsibility as a father to make sure that Mycroft isn't spoiling you."

"Of _course_ he's spoiling me, I'm his only niece." Elspeth eyed Sherlock suspiciously. "Unless you're not telling me something."

"I can assure you that one child is more than enough."

"You say the nicest things, Dad."

Sherlock's smile was sarcastic and Elspeth all too happily returned it, tucking her card into her own purse.

"Anyway, I should get going," she added, putting her purse away. "I'll be back . . . later. Don't blow anything up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in irritation, batting Elspeth away when she pressed an exaggerated kiss onto his cheek, laughing at him.

"Ok, see you both later!" she called, wiggling her fingers at John.

There was a brief silence after Elspeth had gone, the front door slamming shut behind her, much to Mrs Hudson's dismay. John listened to the sound of the landlady's mild complaints as she wandered back to her own flat, shutting the door, and then the silence was resumed.

Slowly closing the paper, John folded it and looked up at Sherlock, who was concentrating on the laptop screen.

"No cases today?" John asked, feeling slightly hopeful.

"None of any interest."

"Oh."

"Don't look too disappointed, John," Sherlock said, smiling at him over his laptop. "Days like these are rare. Enjoy them while you still can."

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Starcrier, ObeyYourHeart and Bookworm45669 (I'm acknowledging your existence again!) for reviewing! This chapter is a bit of a filler but I wanted there to be a transition between A Study In Pink and the Blind Banker.

And in case anyone is wondering, I imagine Elspeth being portrayed by Astrid Berges-Frisbey.


	5. Chapter 5

_**5.**_

John Watson was not having a good morning.

Elspeth had joined him on his trip to the shops but she hadn't been much help, swanning off with the trolley when he most needed it or putting snacks in, insisting that they were beneficial for her health, and at one point she almost knocked over a display of half price biscuits.

It took far longer than necessary to do the weekly shop and when it came to paying, Elspeth insisted that the self-service checkouts were far better before leaving him to struggle in favour of flirting with a young, good looking boy that was stocking shelves.

The checkout machines weren't any help either; it was loud and annoying, the automatic voice telling John that the item wasn't scanned or telling him that his card wasn't authorised – what did _that_ mean?

"I've got to go," Elspeth told the boy she'd been talking to – Mark? Matt? She couldn't remember his name – when she saw John storming away from the checkout machine, leaving the bags of shopping behind. She ran after him. "John, the senility's kicking in," she teased. "You've left the shopping at the checkout."

"Yes, I know," John grumbled irritably, still walking with a determined look in his eyes. "That – _machine _–" he made a frustrated noise. "Next time, we're using the regular checkouts."

Elspeth found it very hard not to laugh.

* * *

Sitting calmly in his armchair with an open book, Sherlock listened to the distinct footsteps of John – heavy, determined – and Elspeth – light, slightly clumsy, the occasional bang from where the tip of her boot would hit the stairs – as they walked up the steps. He did a quick, final sweep of the room to make sure there were no traces of the attacker left. The afternoon had been very eventful for him.

"You took your time," he said as John walked in, Elspeth following him.

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping."

"What? Why not?"

"I couldn't use the machine."

"He spent more time rowing with it than he did using it," Elspeth said with a slight smirk, her eyes flickering down to the sword that was sticking out from underneath the chair. She raised an eyebrow but she didn't say anything.

"You had a row with a machine?" Sherlock asked, lowering his book.

"Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?"

"Take my card," Sherlock said, nodding towards his wallet.

John went to the kitchen and Elspeth took a seat in his armchair, looking down at the sword underneath Sherlock's chair.

"You could always go yourself, you know," John said indignantly, turning around to look at Sherlock. "You've been sitting there all morning. You've not moved since we left."

Sherlock tried to look nonchalant, turning a page in his book, and John rummaged through his wallet for a suitable card to buy the shopping with.

"And what happened to that case you were offered – the Jaria Diamond?"

"Not interested," Sherlock called back, slamming his foot down onto the sword and sliding it under the chair so that it was completely out of sight, his eyes briefly meeting Elspeth's. "I sent a message."

John bent over the table, running his finger over the long narrow scratch that now ran along the table surface, briefly hoping that it was just a mark. He scowled.

"Holmes," he muttered in exasperation. Both Sherlock and Elspeth looked up with identical expressions of innocence. "I'm going to get the shopping."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Elspeth asked sweetly. John glared at her.

"No, thank you."

Elspeth giggled as John stormed back down the stairs, hoping that the shopping would still be at the checkout so he wouldn't go through the whole ordeal again.

"What sort of message did you send them, Dad?" Elspeth asked, her legs hanging over the arm of the chair.

"One they can't ignore," Sherlock retorted, taking the sword out from underneath his own chair and inspecting it. Rising to her feet, Elspeth reached out for it. Sherlock held it out of her reach.

"I just want a look."

"You don't need your hands to look."

"You're using your hands."

"I'm an adult."

Crossing her arms, Elspeth raised her eyebrow as if to say '_really?_'

Sherlock ignored her, holding the sword by the handle and examining the blade with a critical gaze. Elspeth looked at the detail that had gone into its design, etching it into her mind so she could later sketch it out in one of her many books.

"Have we got a dead body hiding somewhere in the flat?" she suddenly asked, her eyes wide with morbid curiosity. Sherlock scoffed.

"No."

"Oh. Why not?"

"The man was sent to execute me and he will be expected to return whether he completes the task or not. He'll probably be killed upon the discovery that he failed."

"What a shame," Elspeth muttered sarcastically. Her face brightened up considerably when Sherlock held the sword out to her.

"Put that somewhere Mrs Hudson and John won't find it."

"The bottom of your wardrobe?"

Sherlock nodded, deeming it a perfectly acceptable place for Elspeth to hide it. Mrs Hudson and John had no reason to go into his wardrobe or through his clothing.

"Try not to stab yourself with it," he called after her. Elspeth muttered that she would much rather stab _him_ with it, a remark that Sherlock pretended not to hear.

Elspeth didn't waste any time hiding the sword away in the bottom of Sherlock's wardrobe, beneath the unopened presents and clothes he'd never worn. Standing up, she straightened out her father's bed sheets and picked up a stray sock that was tucked under his bed, rolling her eyes.

She glanced over towards Sherlock's desk, trying not to cringe at the row of her school photos that he insisted on keeping there. On his bedside table was a far nicer photo, one of them together that Lestrade had taken on Elspeth's sixteenth birthday. Sitting side by side, Sherlock's arm was around Elspeth's shoulders and they were both smiling widely at the camera.

Her lips twitching, Elspeth left Sherlock's room and gently shut the door behind her. She frowned when she saw Sherlock sitting at the table with –

"Is that _John's_ laptop?"

"Yes. Mine is in my bedroom."

"I could've got it for you."

"I highly doubt that considering you try to make my life as difficult as possible," Sherlock muttered, logging onto his emails.

"John won't be happy with you using it," she warned.

"Why not?"

"It's password protected, for one thing."

"You're speaking from experience," Sherlock stated, tilting his head to the side as he faced his daughter. Elspeth shifted uncomfortably, her cheeks turning bright red.

"Shut up," she finally retorted, flopping onto Sherlock's armchair and turning on the TV. Sherlock smirked.

It didn't take long for John to return, and when he did, he was laden with shopping bags that he struggled to get through the door with. Sherlock was focusing on the email he had been sent and Elspeth was engrossed by the latest episode of Jeremy Kyle so neither Holmes made any effort to help him.

"Don't worry about me," John said sarcastically. "I can manage."

Walking through to the kitchen, he put the bags down on the table and turned back around, doing a double take when he saw what Sherlock was using.

"Is that my computer?"

"Of course," Sherlock said distractedly.

"_What?"_

"I told you he wouldn't be happy," Elspeth said without looking away from the TV screen.

"Mine was in the bedroom," Sherlock offered as an explanation.

"What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" When Sherlock didn't reply, John spluttered out indignantly, "it's password protected!"

"In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours." Sherlock glanced up at John. "Not exactly Fort Knox."

"Right, thank you," John said angrily, slamming the lid down so suddenly that Sherlock barely had time to snatch his fingers away and taking it to his seat. John couldn't decide what annoyed him more; the nerve of Sherlock to start using his stuff or the fact that he guessed his password.

Sherlock didn't look bothered, however, as he pressed his hands together and frowned thoughtfully. The email had been unexpected.

Sitting across from Elspeth, John looked through the post addressed to him, his anger slowly being replaced by dread as he realised that several of them were bills.

"I need to get a job."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock muttered.

He put the bills down on the table and glanced over at Elspeth, who wasn't really paying attention to anything but the TV. John looked down at the bills again and then leaned forwards, feeling rather awkward.

"Listen, um . . . if you'd be able to lend me some . . ." John frowned. "Sherlock, are you listening?"

"I need to go to the bank," Sherlock announced. Elspeth looked up, turned off the TV and rushed after Sherlock as he strode down the stairs, pulling his coat on along the way. John jumped up and followed them.

Sherlock flagged a cab, holding the door open for John and Elspeth before climbing in himself. He didn't say anything, not even when the taxi pulled up outside the Shad Sanderson Bank, an impressive building that John stared up at in awe.

"When you said we were going to the bank . . ."

Grinning, Elspeth led John inside. They got on the escalator behind Sherlock, who was observing everything around him; the security system especially. John was still dumbstruck by the building and Elspeth seemed more interested in craning her head back and trying to work out how high the building really was.

"You'll fall over if you keep doing that," Sherlock said without looking at her, stepping off the escalator at the top and striding to the reception desk. Elspeth stuck her tongue out.

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes!" Sebastian said, walking into his office and grinning widely.

"Sebastian," Sherlock said with less enthusiasm, shaking the other man's hand.

"Howdy buddy." Sebastian's grin widened as he clasped Sherlock's hand in both of his. "How long it's been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" Letting go of Sherlock's hand, Sebastian looked at Elspeth. "Ellie Holmes! I almost didn't recognize you, you're all grown up!"

Elspeth forced herself to smile as Sebastian took her hand in his, squeezing it. She'd been nine when she first met him but she could still remember the snide comments he'd made about her father, all done with a smirk that did nothing to lessen the blows. She didn't like him at all.

"This is my friend, John Watson," Sherlock introduced.

"Friend?" Sebastian repeated.

"Colleague," John corrected awkwardly, frowning when Sebastian shot Sherlock a smug look; he took an instant dislike to the man.

Sebastian told them to take a seat, offered them all a drink – all of them declined – and sat across the desk from the three, leaning forwards.

"So," Sherlock said. "you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, some," Sebastian said modestly.

"Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?"

John frowned in confusion, but Sebastian laughed and pointed at Sherlock.

"Right. You're doing that thing. We were at uni together," he explained for John and Elspeth's benefit. "This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock and Elspeth said at the same time, the former looking at his daughter with what appeared to be pride. Sebastian's grin faded slightly.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story!"

"Yes, I've seen him do it," John said quietly.

"Put the wind up everybody. We hated him."

Sherlock looked away silently, a momentary glimpse of pain in his eyes. Elspeth glared at Sebastian but he was oblivious.

"You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night," he continued.

"I simply observed," Sherlock said quietly.

"Go on, enlighten me," Sebastian taunted, ignoring Sherlock. "Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world – you're quite right. How could you tell? You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but Sebastian continued to talk over him. "Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!"

For a few seconds, Sherlock was content on just gazing at Sebastian before he actually spoke.

"I was just chatting with your secretary outside. _She _told me."

John frowned and Elspeth smirked, ducking her head so the three men wouldn't see it. Sebastian laughed without any humour, Sherlock smiling back with an equal lack of amusement.

"I'm glad you could make it over," Sebastian said seriously. "We've had a break in."

Leading them across the trading floor, Sebastian explained that the office of the bank's former Chairman had been broken into but rather than steal anything, they simply left a 'message'.

Sherlock glanced towards Elspeth as they walked into the office, giving her a subtle nod that neither Sebastian nor John saw. She edged forwards, leaning against the desk as she gazed up at the graffiti tag that had been painted on the portrait with bright yellow paint.

It looked vaguely like an eight, but the top of the number was left open, and above it was a horizontal line. Across the eyes of the man in the portrait was another horizontal line, yellow trails running small trails down the painting. Both Sherlock and Elspeth fixed their concentration on the graffiti, and John couldn't help but notice the identical frowns they wore.

"Do you recognize it?" Sherlock asked Elspeth quietly. She shook her head.

"I'll see if anyone else does," she said, taking her phone out of her pocket and taking a few photos of the portrait.

"I have footage in my office if it'll be any help," Sebastian told them. Sherlock nodded, striding out of the room.

Elspeth lingered in the office, still staring at the paint on the portrait, before turning and looking at the door that led to the balcony. It was unlocked.

Pushing it open, Elspeth stepped out and onto the balcony, staring out at the landscape in front of her. She lifted her phone and took a few more photos before sending out a mass text regarding the strange symbol on the portrait.

Minutes later, she'd received several responses about the quality of the paint and the exact shade of yellow that the graffiti artist had used, but no one seemed to know what the symbols meant. She made a firm resolution to post the pictures she'd taken on the internet and see if that was any more help.

Turning around, Elspeth jumped when she saw Sherlock standing behind her in the doorway.

"How long have you been there?"

"Not long. Sebastian showed us the footage," he told her. "Whoever it was that broke in took only a minute to do so."

"That's fast," Elspeth muttered.

"Sebastian also tried to bribe me with a cheque. He called it an incentive." Sherlock snorted as if the notion offended him.

"Did you take it?"

"No. John did."

Elspeth laughed; John probably hadn't seen so much money in his life before.

Brushing past her, Sherlock joined Elspeth's side on the balcony. He bit his lip thoughtfully before heading back inside.

Following her father to the trading floor, Elspeth watched as Sherlock began to do what looked like a strange dance amongst the desks and pillars; he ducked and weaved and scurried about like a deranged squirrel. A few of the traders watched with bemusement and he rushed across the floor again, twirling around a column.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock shushed Elspeth, backing towards an office and stopping in the doorway, where he stood and wiggled about for a few seconds. Turning around, he walked into the office and saw that he had a clear view of the painting, moving back and forth to confirm that it was the only spot the damaged portrait could be seen from.

"Elspeth, come here."

Sighing, Elspeth trudged across the room and let Sherlock guide her into the spot he was standing in.

"Can you see the painting?"

"Yep."

His hands on her shoulders, Sherlock moved Elspeth to the side.

"Can you see it now?"

"Nope. Am I supposed to?"

"No," Sherlock said happily, letting go of Elspeth and darting back out of the office to look for some kind of identification.

* * *

"Two trips around the world this month. You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him," John said. Sherlock smirked. "How _did_ you know?"

"Did you see his watch?"

"His watch?"

"The time was right but the date was wrong," Sherlock explained. "Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."

"Within a month? How'd you get that part?"

"It was a New Breitling," Elspeth said as they stepped off the escalators. "They only came out this February."

"Oh." John frowned. "So do you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?" he asked.

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks," Sherlock said with a grin. "That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and . . ." He deliberately trailed off, giving John time to work it out.

"They'll lead us to the person who sent it," John finished uncertainly.

"Obviously," Elspeth teased, mimicking her father's low voice and making Sherlock smirk.

"Well, there's three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?"

"Pillars."

"What?"

"Pillars and the screens," Sherlock said. "Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot."

"Does it?" John asked in confusion.

"Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight." Holding up the card he'd taken from outside the office, Sherlock added, "not many Van Coons in the phonebook."

* * *

Thank you Bookworm45669, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Starcrier, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, AlieCat, irikedaworld9654 and NightFuryofGallifrey for reviewing! Obviously we're into the Blind Banker now, and Elspeth will be getting more involved with the case as it develops!


	6. Chapter 6

_**6.**_

"Why are we here?" Elspeth asked as she stepped out of the taxi, looking up at the block of flats. Sherlock didn't answer, trotting up the steps and pressing the door buzzer that was marked 'Van Coon'. Releasing it, he took a step back and looked up into the security camera above the doorway, waiting a couple of seconds before pressing the buzzer again.

"I don't think he's in."

"So what do we do now? Sit here and wait for him to come back?" John asked.

Sherlock looked at the number of buzzers on the wall and stepped back to look at the building, silently calculating the layout of the flats.

"Just moved in," he said.

"What?"

"The floor above," Sherlock explained. "It's a new label."

"They could have just replaced it," John suggested while Sherlock pressed the buzzer again.

"No one ever does that."

Elspeth snorted, crossing her arms, but she was caught by surprise when a female voice came from the intercom.

"Hello?"

"Hi!" Sherlock said happily, putting on a strangely cheerful voice that made both Elspeth and John stare at him. "Um, I live in the flat just below you. I don't think we've met." He smiled warmly at the camera just for effect.

"No, well, uh, I've just moved in."

The smug look on Sherlock's face screamed _I told you so_ made John want to punch him.

"Actually, I've just locked my keys in the flat." Grimacing, Sherlock bit his lip.

"Do you want me to buzz you in?"

"Yeah." There was a short pause before Sherlock added, "and can I use your balcony?"

* * *

"What is he doing in there?" John muttered irritably, standing outside Van Coon's apartment while Sherlock used Ms Wintle's balcony to drop onto the one below, letting himself into the flat. It had been ten minutes and he'd neglected to let John and Elspeth in.

"Don't know," Elspeth mumbled distractedly, sitting crossed legged on the ground opposite the door and playing with her hair. She was slowly taking her hairclips out, her hair tumbling onto her shoulders. "Maybe he's cracking the safe combination so we can all go on holiday."

John looked at her with bemusement before knocking on the door.

"Sherlock, are you ok?" he called.

Sherlock didn't answer; he was too busy looking through the various rooms of Van Coon's apartment.

"Yeah, any time you feel like letting us in," John continued on the other side of the door, rolling his eyes.

"'Scuse me," Elspeth said, crouching in front of the lock.

Frowning, John watched Elspeth stick a hairpin into the door lock and wiggle it around for a few minutes, her eyebrows tugging together in concentration. She looked as if she'd done this sort of thing before.

It didn't take her long for her to unlock the door, grinning widely when it opened.

"You've done this before," John accused. Elspeth's grin widened.

"Dad, we're home!" she called.

"Ah good, I was wondering where you were," Sherlock said in an absent minded manner, standing by Van Coon's body in the bedroom.

John walked in, frowning slightly at the body, but Elspeth lingered in the doorway with considerably less colour in her face than before.

"Are you alright?" John asked her. Elspeth nodded silently.

Sherlock looked up. Silently, he straightened up, strode across the room and took Elspeth by the shoulders. He guided her from the bedroom into the living room, where he told her to sit down and got her a bottle of water from the fridge, pressing it into her shaking hands.

"Will you be alright?" he asked her quietly, crouching in front of her.

"Yeah," Elspeth whispered. She fumbled slightly as she opened the lid to the bottle but she was too stubborn to let Sherlock do it for her. "Sorry," she added quietly, looking down. She hadn't meant to freak out like that.

Silently, Sherlock squeezed Elspeth's arm.

"You should probably call Lestrade," she reminded him.

* * *

"Do you think he lost a lot of money?" John suggested. "I mean, suicide is pretty common among city boys."

"We don't know that it _was _suicide."

"Come on. The door was locked from the inside. You had to climb down the balcony!"

Ignoring him, Sherlock squatted down by Van Coon's suitcase that was on the floor by the bed, looking at the contents.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry." Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, spotting the deep indentation in the clothing, and then stood up. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."

"Thanks, I'll take your word for it," John said sarcastically.

"Problem?"

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear. And have you even thought about Ellie since we got here?"

"What do you mean?"

"She saw a _dead body_ and you've just left her in the living room!"

"It's the best place for her," Sherlock said defensively, offended that John was questioning his parenting skills.

"I'm going to check on her."

Sherlock frowned and John stormed out of the room, leaving the detective feeling rather confused. He could hear John ask about her wellbeing and rolled his eyes, gently prising open Van Coon's mouth. Inside was a small black origami flower.

"He was being threatened," Sherlock murmured quietly, putting the flower into an evidence bag.

Turning around, Sherlock saw a man – a plain clothed officer who looked considerably younger than Lestrade, as he'd initially expected – walk into the bedroom.

"Ah, Sergeant. We haven't met."

Sherlock offered to shake his hand but the man ignored him, putting his hands on his hips.

"Yeah, I know who you are and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence. And would you mind telling me why there's a _kid_ at the crime scene?"

"She's my daughter," Sherlock retorted angrily. "I phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?"

"He's busy. _I'm_ in charge. And it's not Sergeant, it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock."

Sherlock looked at him in surprise; the man didn't look old enough to have the same title as Lestrade. Handing the evidence bag to one of the forensic scientists, Sherlock followed Dimmock out of the room.

Elspeth looked up at her father; she had slightly more colour in her cheeks than before. John, who was sitting next to her, stood up as Sherlock walked into the room.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide," Dimmock announced.

"That does seem the only explanation of all the facts," John agreed.

"Wrong. It's_ one_ possible explanation of_ some_ of the facts. You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?"

"The wound was on the _right_ side of his head," Sherlock said.

"And?"

"Van Coon was left handed," Elspeth said quietly from her seat on the sofa, much to John and Dimmock's surprise. Sherlock smirked happily. "The coffee table is on the left, the handle of the mug is pointing to the left, the pen and paper is on the left side of the phone so he could write messages."

"Anything else?" Dimmock retorted sarcastically.

"Power sockets," Sherlock said. "Habitually used the ones on the left. There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left." He looked at Dimmock impatiently. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head."

"So?"

"So the conclusion is that someone broke in here and murdered him. _Only_ explanation of_ all_ the facts."

"But the gun," Dimmock said. "Why - ?"

"He was _waiting_ for the killer," Sherlock interrupted impatiently. "He'd been threatened." Walking away, he pulled on his coat and scarf. "Come on, Ellie."

"What?"

"Today at the bank," John explained. "It was a sort of warning."

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," Sherlock said.

"And the bullet?"

"Went through the open window."

"Oh come on! What are the chances of _that_?" Dimmock asked incredulously.

"Wait until you get the ballistics report," Sherlock replied. "The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun, I guarantee it."

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?"

"Good!" Sherlock said condescendingly, whirling around to face him. "You're finally asking the right questions." With an insincere smile, Sherlock put his hand on Elspeth's back and flounced out of the flat, guiding her away. John looked at Dimmock apologetically before following.

"Where are we going now?" Elspeth asked, Sherlock's hand gently pushing her down the corridor as he strode down it. He seemed to have forgotten about John.

"To find Sebastian."

Stopping at the end of the corridor so John could catch up, Sherlock put one hand on Elspeth's shoulder and the other under her chin, forcing her to look at him. He didn't say anything for a few seconds and she looked up at him with big sad eyes.

"You need to go home," Sherlock told her.

"But Dad –"

"No buts. You're going home."

Elspeth glared at him stubbornly, her lips pressed together. John felt that he was intruding on something as he joined them, hanging back slightly.

"Fine," she finally said, crossing her arms. "I'll walk."

"We'll get a taxi," Sherlock countered.

"I want to walk."

"You'll get in the taxi with John and I."

"I'll _walk._"

"Elspeth –"

"Dad, I'm not a kid," Elspeth interrupted angrily with a blazing look in her eyes. "I am perfectly capable of walking home."

Sherlock glared back at Elspeth and John thought that the tension was so thick that they'd need a chainsaw to cut through it; he could tell that neither one was going to give in. They were just as stubborn as each other.

Silently, Sherlock pressed the 'open' door on the elevator, looking at Elspeth pointedly as the doors slid open.

"I'll get the stairs," she muttered.

His lips pressed together in a tight line, Sherlock strode into the elevator, giving John seconds to offer Elspeth a sympathetic smile before joining him. John felt strangely guilty about leaving her behind.

Sherlock and John stood in awkward silence for a few seconds before John broke it, clearing his throat.

"Has . . . has Ellie had a panic attack like that before?" he asked.

Sherlock hesitated slightly before answering. "Yes."

"Are they frequent?"

"Hardly."

"I think she handled it rather well all things considered," John commented casually, thinking back to his old army friends and how they reacted to seeing a dead body their first time. They'd all been trained but nothing could prepare them for the reality of it all. John was amazed at how Elspeth not only controlled her attack, but also calmed herself down enough until she was no longer having one.

He briefly wondered if Elspeth had more panic attacks than she cared to let on without ever telling Sherlock about them. He was a good father from what he had seen, and though John knew he was observant, he wasn't attentive.

"Do you think she'll get home alright?"

"She'll probably engage in what she refers to as retail therapy beforehand, but Ellie will be home before us."

"Retail therapy, huh? Typical woman," John tried to joke.

"Not my area," Sherlock muttered, his lips twitching slightly.

The two left the apartment building and Sherlock called a taxi; the silence resumed again. Sherlock's mind wandered to the black origami flower in Van Coon's mouth while John thought about Elspeth, worrying about her. She wasn't a child, like she pointed out, but she was still young. Seventeen and living with Sherlock Holmes . . . it had to be stressful.

The taxi didn't drive for long, stopping outside an expensive looking restaurant. John glanced at Sherlock questioningly.

"Sebastian?"

"Obviously."

The inside of the restaurant was just as fancy as the outside and it didn't take long for Sherlock to spot Sebastian sitting amongst his work colleagues, obviously telling a funny story judging by their laughter.

"Maybe we should wait," John suggested. Sherlock ignored him, striding over to Sebastian. "Or not."

"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant."

Sebastian's grin dropped as he looked up, his eyes flickering awkwardly to his work colleagues.

"I'm kind of in a morning. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

"I don't think this can wait," Sherlock replied. "Sorry, Sebastian, one of your traders – someone who worked in your office – was killed."

"What?"

"Van Coon. The police are at his flat."

"_Killed_?" Sebastian asked incredulously.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," Sherlock said sarcastically, smirking at Sebastian's colleagues as they stared at him. "Still want to make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?"

Squirming because of the implications, Sebastian put down his glass and ran his fingers inside his shirt collar.

"No Ellie?" he asked casually, a poor attempt at changing the conversation.

"My daughter is none of your concern, Sebastian, Van Coon is. Or was, considering the current situation."

"Perhaps we should talk about this somewhere else," John suggested awkwardly.

"Excellent idea, John," Sherlock agreed, looking pointedly at Sebastian.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Sebastian mumbled, rising to his feet and gesturing for Sherlock and John to follow him as he strode across to the bathroom. "I don't appreciate being harassed like this," he said over his shoulder.

"It's hardly harassment considering one of your traders is dead," John scoffed. The more he spoke to Sebastian, the more he disliked the man.

"It's a real shame," Sebastian said as they walked into the bathroom, turning the tap so he could wash his hands. "He was smart. Harrow, Oxford . . . a very bright guy. He worked in Asia so . . ." Sebastian's voice trailed off slightly.

"So you gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John finished.

"Lost five mill in a single morning; made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."

"Who'd want to kill him?"

"We all make enemies," Sebastian said.

"You don't all end up with a bullet through your head," John pointed out.

"Not usually," Sebastian agreed, his phone going off in his pocket; he took it out and looked at the message. "'Scuse me. It's my Chairman. The police have been on to him. Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."

"Well they've got it wrong, Sebastian," Sherlock said. "He was murdered."

"Well I'm afraid they don't see it like that," Sebastian retorted.

"Seb."

". . . and neither does my boss," he finished, putting the phone back into his pocket. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked."

Striding past them, Sebastian left the bathroom. The door swung shut behind them and John looked at Sherlock.

"I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards."

* * *

Thank you . , xxxMadameMysteryxxx, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, Starcrier, Adrillian1497, Bookworm45669 and my two anonymous reviewers for reviewing! If anyone is curious, I've made a tumblr designed specifically for my fanfictions (demolition-lover-14-fanfiction) and there are some graphics I've made for this fic, and I'll probably continue making them.


	7. Chapter 7

_**7.**_

"It's so annoying," Elspeth complained. "He treats me like a baby all the time. I'm _seventeen._"

"I know, dear, but you're still his little girl," Mrs Hudson comforted, pouring Elspeth a second cup of tea. "Do you want a biscuit?"

"No thanks," Elspeth said dully.

Mrs Hudson tutted; Elspeth was too skinny in her opinion. She put down a small plate of biscuits anyway, gently squeezing the glum looking teenager on the shoulder.

Hearing the front door open, Mrs Hudson left her flat and looked at Sherlock with disapproval as he walked in.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed, anticipating a scolding. "Mrs Hudson," he said.

"I've got an upset girl in my kitchen right now."

"I expected as much."

"Ellie got home alright?" John asked from behind Sherlock.

"Yes, yes, came storming through that door in a horrid temper," Mrs Hudson explained, tutting. "Should I send her up with you, Sherlock?"

"Do what you want, Mrs Hudson, she won't listen to any of us," Sherlock snapped back, striding up the stairs, leaving John and Mrs Hudson standing in the hallway.

"They're just as stubborn as each other, those two."

John responded with a half-smile, staring up the stairs and watching as Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him. "Will either of them apologise?"

"No, probably not."

"Great." Sighing, John pressed his lips together and rocked slightly on the balls of his feet. "I should check if he's alright."

Elspeth looked up when Mrs Hudson walked back into her kitchen. She hadn't touched her second cup of tea but she had nibbled on a biscuit, entertaining herself by pushing the crumbs around in her drink. Realising she'd made a mess, she grinned sheepishly.

"Is this the part where you kick me up?"

"You're always welcome to stay here if you want."

"Nah it's alright, I won't ruin your evening with my bad mood," Elspeth said good naturedly, standing up. "Thank you for the tea and sympathy."

Elspeth pressed a quick kiss to Mrs Hudson's cheek before darting upstairs, going straight to her room. John heard her footsteps and looked over at Sherlock, who was brooding over his violin.

"Maybe you should apologise," he suggested quietly. Sherlock's response was a loud snort, starting to play the violin so he wouldn't hear anything else that John had to say. A minute later, Elspeth's music was blasting out so loudly that even Mrs Hudson could hear it from her flat. Sherlock scowled, playing his violin even louder. John sighed.

A couple of hours later, and neither Holmes was willing to admit they were wrong. It was only to escape John's grumbling that Sherlock strode upstairs to Elspeth's room.

Lying on her side, her knees curled up to her chest, Elspeth scowled when she heard the sharp rap on her bedroom door.

"Go away," she called over her shoulder.

Sherlock opened the door anyway. "John is under the impression that I should apologise to you," he announced.

"I wouldn't want you to feel obliged to," Elspeth grumbled quietly.

Sherlock didn't say anything else, but Elspeth heard him cross the room and put something down on her bedside table before striding out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Elspeth waited a few seconds before rolling over, propping herself up on her elbows. There, on the bedside table, was a mug – her favourite mug – of hot chocolate, and when she sipped it, she realised it was made just the way she liked it.

It wasn't an apology, because neither Sherlock nor Elspeth Holmes apologised to each other even when they knew they were wrong, but it was a start.

Putting down the mug, Elspeth got up from her bed, crossed her room and turned down her music.

* * *

""

"Just locum work," Doctor Sawyer – Sarah, she'd introduced herself at the beginning of the interview – clarified, looking up from his CV.

"No, that's fine," John assured her. He really needed the job.

"You're erm . . . you're a bit over-qualified."

"Er, I could always do with the money." He _really_ needed the money.

"Well, we've got two away on holiday this week, and one's just left to have a baby. Might be a bit mundane for you."

"No, mundane is good sometimes. Mundane works."

Mundane was a rare occurrence in 221B; even if it meant sitting in an office all day, John needed a few hours of being _normal._

"It says here you were a soldier," Sarah said softly.

"And a doctor."

John smiled at Sarah, who hesitantly smiled back at him. She was very pretty, something he'd noticed several times during the interview.

"Anything else you can do?"

"I learned the clarinet at school."

"Oh." Sarah looked slightly startled before realising that John was joking, and she started to laugh. "Well, I look forward to it!"

Grinning, John shook Sarah's hand and she promised to get in contact with him about the job; the silly little grin stayed on his face for the entire taxi ride home, and the taxi driver thought it necessary to politely inquire if he was a bit intoxicated.

His grin dropped, however, when he saw Sherlock sitting at the dining table with several photos stuck up on the mirror above the fireplace, his fingers pressed together under his chin.

"I said could you pass me a pen?" Sherlock asked, not looking round, as John put down his jacket. Surprised, John glanced down at Elspeth, who was stretched out across the sofa, one hand tucked behind her head and the other holding her book; she seemed oblivious to his presence.

"What? When?"

"About an hour ago."

John sighed. "Didn't noticed I'd gone out then," he muttered, picking up a pen and throwing it to Sherlock, who caught it without looking away from the photographs on the wall. "I went to see that job at the surgery."

"How was it?"

"It's great. She's great," John said absent mindedly, his mind drifting to Sarah and her grin.

"Who?"

"The job."

"_She_?" Elspeth asked, lifting her head and frowning at John, the first time she'd acknowledged him since he had arrived home.

Suddenly realising his mistake, John hesitated slightly before saying, "it."

Both Sherlock and Elspeth looked at him suspiciously, obviously unconvinced, and Sherlock then jerked his head to the right.

"Here, have a look," he said.

Walking over to the laptop, John looked at the news webpage, reading the headline. '**Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police.' **He skimmed through the article; Brian Lukis had been shot in his fourth floor apartment with no sign of a break in.

"The intruder who can walk through walls."

"Happened last night," Sherlock said. "Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside – exactly the same as Van Coon."

"God, you think . . ."

"He's killed another one," Sherlock finished, confirming John's fears. "Come on, we've got to tell Dimmock. Bring the laptop."

"Hooray," Elspeth muttered, putting her book down.

The taxi ride to the station was quiet, all three of them lost in their thoughts; Sherlock's mind focused on the case while John daydreamed about Sarah from the surgery. Dimmock didn't look too pleased to see them when they arrived at his office.

"What do you want now?" he asked in exasperation.

Quickly, Sherlock turned on the laptop, loading the page that they'd been looking at earlier.

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat," he said as he did so, turning the laptop around to show Dimmock. ". . . doors locked from the inside."

"You've got to admit, it's similar," John said. "Both men killed by someone who can . . ." his voice trailed off, as if he was uncertain how to phrase it.

"Walk through solid walls apparently," Elspeth muttered. Dimmock glared at her irritably.

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another City suicide?" Sherlock asked, making Dimmock squirm uncomfortably in his seat, not meeting the detective's gaze. "You _have_ seen the ballistics report, I suppose?" Dimmock made a noise of agreement under his breath. "And the shot that killed him: was it fired from his own gun?"

"No," Dimmock said reluctantly.

"No," Sherlock repeated. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel."

Elspeth rolled her eyes. Dimmock looked at Sherlock silently, staying completely still as he leaned forwards across the desk, speaking quietly and intensely.

"I've just handed you a murder enquiry." Standing up, Sherlock added, "I need five minutes in his flat."

* * *

Ducking under the police tape, Elspeth followed Sherlock up the steps of Lukis' flat with Dimmock and John close behind her. Avoiding the empty suitcase and all the books scattered around the living room – on the desk, on the shelves, even on the floor; she was reminded of her own collection of books – Elspeth stood in the landing and craned her neck back, looking up at the skylight.

"Four floors up," Sherlock said, gazing through the window of the kitchen. "That's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut; think they're impregnable." He strode through to the middle of the room again. "They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in," he murmured, his eyes meeting Elspeth's.

"I don't understand," Dimmock said.

"You're dealing with a killer who can climb."

Picking up a box, he put it down by Elspeth's feet and she climbed up onto it, stretching up to unlock the window.

"What are you doing?" Dimmock asked in exasperation, watching Elspeth push the window open and then hook her fingers against the windowsill.

"He clings to the walls like an insect," Sherlock said, and Elspeth picked up another box to stand on so she could peer through the open window. "That's how he got in."

"_What?_"

Sherlock didn't respond to Dimmock's incredulous outcry because, suddenly, Elspeth hauled herself up and onto the roof, her legs flailing slightly before disappearing. Unable to stop himself from crying out, John rushed forwards to Sherlock's side, trying to comprehend how the man remained so calm when his daughter had just climbed onto a roof.

Grinning at their reaction, Elspeth hung her head upside down through the window, beaming at John when he pressed his lips together. He wasn't amused.

"He climbed up the walls, ran along the roof and dropped through here," Elspeth said, lifting her head and sticking her legs over the edge of the window, demonstrating her point by climbing back into the landing.

"You're not serious!" Dimmock protested. "Like Spiderman?"

"He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon." This came from Sherlock, who let Elspeth hold onto his shoulder as she clambered back down from the boxes she was standing on.

"Oh, ho – hold on!"

"And of course that's how he got into the bank," Sherlock continued. "He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace. "We have to find out what connects these two men."

His eyes fell on the pile of books scattered up the side of the staircase and he picked one up in particular, looking at the front page that indicated Lukis had borrowed it from West Kensington Library. Slamming it shut, Sherlock took it with him as he bounded down the steps.

"Where are we going now?" John asked, chasing after Sherlock with Elspeth close behind.

"West Kensington Library. Are you familiar with it?"

"I am," Elspeth chirped. As brilliant as the college library was, it was somewhat limited in regards to fiction novels, so she and her friends would spend their free periods or weekends searching for other libraries to study in. She took the book from Sherlock, flicking to the first page as her father hailed a cab.

The taxi ride was short and Elspeth was bursting with excitement by the time she, Sherlock and John arrived at the library; still carrying the book, she bounded ahead of them.

Turning a corner, Elspeth checked the reference number stuck on the bottom of the spine, moving along the aisle and pulling out books, examining each one.

"The date stamped in the book was the day that Lukis died," Sherlock explained for John's benefit, joining Elspeth at the far end of the shelf and removing books as well. John watched them for a few seconds, eyebrows raised slightly, before turning and taking the nearest book of the shelf, just looking for something to do.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned around and saw the John staring into the gap he'd made by removing the books. Stepping over, he pulled out several other books, handing them to Elspeth before then taking the rest of the books of the shelf, revealing the two symbols sprayed on the back of the shelf.

"Huh," Elspeth said quietly, staring at it. She looked up at Sherlock. "Lucky coincidence?"

Snorting, Sherlock glared down at Elspeth. She shrugged.

"You could make yourself useful," he muttered, turning his attention back to the graffiti.

"Alright."

Elspeth thrust the books she was holding into John's arms. He hadn't been expecting it and nearly dropped them, wrapping his arms around them before they could slip away, and Elspeth strode back down the aisle, her hair bouncing on her shoulders.

"Where are you going now?" Sherlock demanded impatiently, also shoving his books into John's arms. He almost stumbled from the impact.

"I'm making myself useful," Elspeth said, but not angrily. Whirling around, she gave Sherlock and John a wicked grin – it was a grin that John had quickly learned to associate with trouble. "I'll call you later!"

There was a loud crash as John dropped all the books he was holding and Sherlock gave him an exasperated glance over his shoulder.

It didn't take Elspeth long to get to the National Gallery, one of her favourite places in London. Sherlock had taken her for her eleventh birthday and she could still remember how awestruck she had been; her father must've been bored out of his mind but he let Elspeth drag him around, taking in every detail.

But rather than go into the gallery, she walked around the back of it, pleased to see exactly who she was looking for spraying the wall.

"Raz!" Elspeth called, striding forwards.

"Hey gorgeous," Raz called back. He stopped spraying the wall and quickly hugged her.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Vandalising," Elspeth said with a smirk, turning her attention to the wall that Raz had been spraying and then the canvas bag full of spray cans. Raz grinned back widely. "It's good. I like it."

"Thanks. I'm thinking about calling it Urban Bloodlust Frenzy."

"Well that's certainly original," Elspeth muttered. "Look, there's this thing my Dad and I really need help with, do you think you could do it?"

"Mmm depends, babe," Raz said, throwing one spray can into the bag and then picking up another. "What's in it for me?"

"My undying gratitude?"

Raz turned his eyes on her and Elspeth smiled back innocently, batting her eyelashes. She'd always known that she wasn't the typical beauty but there was something striking about Elspeth, a certain quality that she could use to her advantage. It was rather similar to Sherlock's manipulation of people.

"Please?" she added quietly. "_Pretty_ please?"

"Fine." Raz pointed at her. "But you owe me!"

Elspeth grinned back, taking her phone out of her pocket and dialling Sherlock's number.

"What have you found?"

"Hello to you too," Elspeth retorted, rolling her eyes. "Remember Raz?"

"Of course."

"He might be able to help."

Elspeth could imagine a grin slowly spreading across Sherlock's face as realisation dawned on him and she couldn't help but wear a smug smile herself.

"We'll be right there."

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, Starcrier, Adrillian1497 and Bookworm45669 for reviewing! Has anyone else seen the 50th Anniversary of Doctor Who/Sherlock Series Three trailer? I thought I might faint from excitement.


	8. Chapter 8

_**8.**_

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John," Sherlock explained, him and John striding across Trafalgar Square. "From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."

"Yes, ok, but . . ."

". . . but it's all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

"Where are we headed?" John asked; Sherlock still hadn't told him.

"I need to ask some advice."

John stopped. He hadn't been expecting _that._

"Sorry, what?"

Giving John a dark look over his shoulder, Sherlock snapped, "You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again."

"You need advice?"

"On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert."

John frowned slightly as he followed Sherlock around the back of the National Gallery, wondering what sort of expert he was being taken to; truth be told, he couldn't understand why Elspeth couldn't be of any more help. _She_ was the one doing an A-level in art, after all.

He couldn't decide what disconcerted him the most; the fact that Sherlock considered the teenage boy in a hoodie an expert or that Elspeth was helping said teenage boy spray the wall, neither of them perturbed by Sherlock and John's appearance.

"Part of a new exhibition," Raz said without looking away from the wall, adding his tag to the image of a policeman with a pig's snout in the place of his nose. Elspeth grinned at Sherlock and John.

"Interesting," Sherlock said disinterestedly.

"I contributed," Elspeth added, throwing the can she was holding into the canvas bag at their feet.

"I call it Urban Blood Frenzy," Raz said.

"Catchy," John muttered, much to Elspeth's amusement. Raz continued to spray the wall.

"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner. Can we do this while I'm working?"

Taking his phone out of his pocket, Sherlock held it out to Raz, who turned around and threw the spray can at John. He caught it instinctively, looking slightly bewildered, and Raz took the phone so he could scroll through the pictures of the yellow ciphers.

"Know the author?" Sherlock asked.

"Recognise the paint," Raz said. "It's like Michigan; hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc. Surprised you didn't know that, babe," he added, looking at Elspeth. She stuck her tongue out.

"What about the symbols? Do you recognize them?"

"Not even sure it's a proper language."

"Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."

"What, and this is all you've got to go on? It's hardly much, now, is it?"

"Are you going to help us or not?"

"I'll ask around," Raz promised.

"I've been doing that since this all began," Elspeth muttered irritably; none of her friends had been of any help.

"Somebody must know something about it," Sherlock said impatiently.

"Oi!"

The effect was instantaneous; whirling around, they saw the Community Support Officer striding towards them and Sherlock grabbed the phone from Raz, running off in the opposite direction. Elspeth chased after him while Raz dropped the spray can, kicking the bag towards John. Meekly, John looked at the officer.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "This gallery is a listed public building."

"No, no, wait, wait. It's not me who painted that," John protested, holding up the spray can. "I was just holding this for . . ." Glancing over his shoulder, he realised that he'd been abandoned. John sighed.

The community officer kicked open the bag to reveal even more spray cans. "Bit of an enthusiast, are we?"

* * *

Rounding the corner, Sherlock quickly hailed a cab and Elspeth lightly bumped into him as she also stopped, slightly out of breath. Raz had run in a different direction, shouting over his shoulder that he would call Elspeth later; she'd replied with a laugh and a smirk.

Sherlock opened the taxi door and ushered Elspeth inside. She clambered in, collapsing on her seat and giggling weakly, grinning at her father when he sat down next to her. He gave the driver their address.

"What about John?" she asked suddenly.

"What about him?"

"We just left him." Elspeth frowned. "Again," she added uncomfortably. She had started to notice just how often John was left behind by her and Sherlock, though usually by the latter. It was a wonder that Sherlock didn't forget about her. He had done sometimes, when she was young and in school, but thankfully there were people like Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and even Molly who remembered to pick her up from school rather than make her trudge through the streets of London alone.

Sherlock glanced at his daughter while she gazed out of the cab window, absent mindedly picking at the skin around her thumb. He knew that she was thinking about when she was young, when he depended on everyone else to raise his daughter for him; Sherlock loved his daughter dearly, but he wasn't a very good father to begin with.

She hadn't done it for several years now, because she was old enough to be easily embarrassed, but when she was young, Elspeth would fling her small arms around Sherlock's neck and declare that she loved him, telling him that he was the best dad in the whole world. The thought made Sherlock's lips twitch slightly.

"Stop staring at me," Elspeth muttered without looking at Sherlock, who smirked. "And stop laughing."

She wasn't as good as Sherlock at observations – who was? – but she had a certain knack for it, amongst other things. Lock picking, pickpocketing, lying, cheating – it would've worried any other parent. The only thing that really concerned Sherlock were the fights that Elspeth had gotten into during her school education but she was older and more mature; Sherlock thought it was a phase, Mycroft thought it was a cry for attention.

"You do realise that Raz has feelings for you, don't you?" Sherlock asked.

"He doesn't have _feelings_ for me, he just likes to flirt," Elspeth replied. "He's afraid of commitment anyway."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was aware that his daughter was reasonably attractive and he was even more aware that boys seemed to think so as well, but wasn't that the fear of all fathers? Fearful that their daughters would eventually leave them, but even more so that they never would.

Elspeth was too independent to become someone's girlfriend or, worse, wife, Sherlock was certain. She had ambitions; boys would just get in her way.

The cab pulled up outside 221B and Sherlock paid the driver, bounding up the stairs without bothering to wait for Elspeth, who trailed after him anyway. She shrugged off her jacket and slipped out of her boots, losing a few inches in her height as she did so.

"Make yourself useful," Sherlock said, pushing some papers into her arms. "and put those up there." He gestured towards the mirror, which already had several papers and images stuck around it, and picked up a book.

"What did your last servant die off?" Elspeth asked sarcastically, picking up the blue tack from the kitchen table.

"You aren't dead yet."

Elspeth gave Sherlock a look that they both did very well, a sarcastic smile that looked more like a sneer with a flat expression in her eyes, before sticking the papers onto the mirror. Glancing up from his book, Sherlock smirked.

"When you're done with that, make me a cup of tea."

In response, Elspeth muttered something under her breath about sticking the tea where the sun didn't shine.

"Anatomically impossible."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

When she made threats like that, accompanied with a pointed look over her shoulder, Sherlock could see why boys her age occasionally found his daughter intimidating. He felt proud.

Despite her grumbling, Elspeth did make a cup of tea for them both. She did search through the cupboards for some biscuits but they'd been left for too long and had gone soft; her nose scrunched up when Elspeth took an experimental nibble of one.

"I might go see if Mrs Hudson has some," she announced just as the front door slammed open. Striding up the stairs, John stormed into the living room with a face like thunder.

"You've been a while," Sherlock commented. John strode further into the room, his fists clenched with rage, and he took a quick glance in Elspeth's way, his expression softening slightly as if he only just realised she was there. It wouldn't do any good to lose his temper in front of her.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" John started to pace, wearing a tight lipped smile that looked more like a grimace. "Just formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet and I've got to be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday!"

"What?" Elspeth asked incredulously. "Really?"

"I have to be in court on Tuesday. They're giving me an ASBO!"

"Good," Sherlock muttered absent mindedly while Elspeth tried not to laugh at the thought of John receiving an ASBO. "Fine."

"You could tell your pal that he's welcome to go and own up any time," John said through gritted teeth, and Elspeth wasn't sure if he was talking to her or Sherlock.

Sherlock slammed his book shut. "This symbol. I still can't seem to place it." Turning around and putting the book down, he strode towards John and pulled his jacket, which the other man had been in the process of removing, back on over his shoulders. "No, I need you to go to the police station –" John made a noise of protest as Sherlock guided him towards the door. ". . . ask about the journalist."

John let out an exasperated huff and Sherlock took his own coat from the back of the door.

"His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements."

Quickly, Elspeth pulled her boots and jacket back on, racing after the two men as they walked out onto the street.

"Ellie, come with me," Sherlock said to her. "We're going to see Van Coon's P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide."

He strode down the street. Giving John a quick smile, Elspeth followed him.

"I think he's angry," she said.

"Your skills of observation never cease to amaze me," Sherlock said dryly.

"And your skills of ignorance never cease to amaze me," Elspeth retorted. "Seriously, Dad, keep taking him from granted and John will go."

"How would you know?"

Feeling slightly stung and indignant, Elspeth glared at her father, remaining silent for the rest of the journey to the bank. Sherlock could tell that she was annoyed at him for some reason but he couldn't be bothered to delve into the mind of a teenage girl and work out what he had done wrong.

The pair were escorted to Van Coon's office by his P.A., a pretty young woman who introduced herself as Amanda. Elspeth noticed the way that Amanda's eyes lingered on her father for just a few seconds when they shook hands. She rolled her eyes.

"Flew back from Dalian Friday," she said, looking at an online calendar when Sherlock made his inquiries. "Looks like he had back-to-back meetings with the sales team."

"Can you print me off a copy?"

"Sure."

"What about the day he died? Can you tell me where he was?" Sherlock asked. Amanda looked at the calendar again.

"Sorry, there's a bit of a gap."

"So he flew back on a Friday and left his dirty washing in his suitcase all weekend?" Elspeth screwed her nose up. "Ew."

"I have all his receipts," Amanda said with a small smile in Elspeth's direction, sympathising with her disgust. "Would you like me to get them?"

"If you could."

Fetching the receipts, Amanda spread them out on the desk for Sherlock and Elspeth to see.

"What kind of a boss was he, Amanda? Appreciative?" Sherlock asked.

"Um, no. That's not a word I'd use. The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag."

Elspeth smirked and Sherlock knelt by the desk, his eyes resting on the large bottle of luxury hand lotion at the back of the desk.

"Like that hand cream. _He_ bought that for you, didn't he?"

Amanda fiddled with her hairpin, a nervous gesture, and Sherlock shuffled through the paperwork, picking up a receipt from a licensed taxi. He handed it to Amanda.

"Look at this one," he said. "Got a taxi from home on the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty."

"That would get him to the office."

"Not rush hour, check the time," Sherlock pointed out. "Mid-morning. Eighteen would get him as far as . . ."

"The West End," Amanda finished. "I remember him saying."

Reaching out, Elspeth picked an Underground ticket with the same date that issued in Picadilly. She showed it Sherlock, who handed it to Amanda.

"So he got a Tube back to the office. Why would he get a taxi into town and then the Tube back?"

"Because he was delivering something heavy."

"He didn't want to lug a package up the escalator," Elspeth added quietly, slowly catching onto what her father was saying. Amanda looked lost.

"Delivering?"

"To somewhere near Piccadilly Station. Dropped the package, delivered it and then . . ." Sherlock sorted through the receipts, standing up as he chose one in particular. "stopped on his way. He got peckish."

Elspeth took the receipt from Sherlock, reading it and grinning up at him.

"Well," she said. "What are we waiting for?"

* * *

It didn't take long for Sherlock and Elspeth to find the espresso bar that the receipt was from, him ignoring her pleads for them to go inside for a drink for a majority of the journey.

"So you bought your lunch from here en route to the station, but where were you headed from?" Sherlock asked, talking to himself. "Where did the taxi drop you . . . ?"

Spinning around, Sherlock and John, who had been engrossed in Lukis' diary, collided. John looked at him in surprise.

"Hi John!" Elspeth said brightly, holding a takeaway coffee in her hand; while Sherlock had been distracted, she'd snuck into the café and brought herself a drink.

"Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died – whatever was hidden inside that case. I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information –"

"Sherlock."

" – credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here."

"Sherlock," John tried again.

"Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don't know where, but –"

"That shop over there," John said, pointing across the street and making Sherlock frown as he glanced between the two of them.

"How can you tell?"

"Lukis' diary. He was here too. He wrote down the address."

"Oh."

"Again with the waiting," Elspeth complained. "Let's go!"

She strode across the road with Sherlock and John following her, the three of them entering the shop that looked as if it had been designed for tourists. There were a lot of decorative cats on their hind legs with paws that waved back and forth and Elspeth looked at them curiously.

"You want lucky cat?" the shop keeper asked while they browsed, lifting one from her counter.

"No, thanks, no," John said politely.

"Ten pound. Ten pound!" the shop keeper insisted. John declined again, smiling awkwardly. "I think your wife, she will like!" She gestured towards Elspeth, who laughed.

"I'm not his wife," she explained quickly, grinning. "Dad, can I have a tenner?"

Sherlock handed Elspeth the money without argument and she purchased one of the lucky cats, much to John's bemusement.

"I think they're cute," she defended, clutching the carrier bag closer to her chest and pouting slightly.

Shaking his head, John walked over to a table with small ceramic handle-less cups on it, picking one up and turning it over to look at the price tag. Elspeth trailed after him, also picking one up, and she looked up at him when she saw the symbol on the bottom. It was the same upside-down eight with a line above it, the symbol that had been on the portrait and the library shelf.

"Something weird is going on," she muttered, putting the cup down.

"Sherlock," John called. Sherlock, who had been examining a rack of clay statues, put down the one he was holding and joined them at the table. "The label."

"Yes, I can see it."

"It's exactly the same as the cipher," Elspeth said. "Something _really _weird is going on."

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, Adrillian1497, Smiling Dreams, Starcrier and Bookworm45669 for reviewing!

I would also like to add that if anyone has any questions about the fic - the plot, characterisation, Elspeth - then head over to my fanfiction tumblr (the link is on my profile) and drop a question into my inbox. I promise to answer every single question if anyone has any!


	9. Chapter 9

_**9.**_

"It's an ancient number system!" Sherlock said triumphantly, he and John striding down the street with Elspeth close behind. "Hangzhou."

"Bless you," Elspeth muttered. John grinned at her.

"These days, only street traders use it. Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library."

Walking over to the greengrocers, which had some of its wares on display outside, Sherlock saw that there were several handwritten signs with the cost of each item in both Hangzhou and English. He picked up several of the signs, checking the symbols.

"Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect," he finished.

Elspeth spotted a sign with an upside eight and a line above it, along with the English equivalent, and she picked it up, showing it to Sherlock.

"Fifteen," she said incredulously. "It isn't a tag, it's the number fifteen!"

"And the blindfold – the horizontal line? That was a number as well." Sherlock showed John and Elspeth a price tag with the slash at the top, along with £1 written underneath. "The Chinese number one," he said, grinning. Elspeth grinned back.

"We've found it!" John said happily.

Beaming, Elspeth walked with Sherlock down the street and John smiled to himself, turning to follow them. As he did so, he spotted a woman – the same woman he had spotted earlier outside 221B when he got a taxi to Scotland Yard – with a camera that was pointing in John's direction. Someone walked past her, obscuring his view, and when they moved away, the woman had disappeared.

"Are you alright?" Elspeth asked him when John caught up with her and Sherlock.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said distractedly, glancing over his shoulder. Frowning, Elspeth turned around and looked over her shoulder as well, glancing up at John with her eyebrows raised.

"What are we looking at?"

"Uh – nothing. Come on."

John put his hand on Elspeth's shoulder, guiding her back down the street even though she kept looking behind her, straining to see what had distracted John. Sherlock frowned at her.

After a short walk, Sherlock led John and Elspeth into a restaurant that was across the street from a tourist shop. Her stomach rumbling, Elspeth realised how hungry she was.

The three were showed to a table by the window. Elspeth sat down by the window with Sherlock by her side and John sat across from them, once again struck by how similar the father and daughter were. A waitress took John and Elspeth's orders but Sherlock insisted he didn't want anything despite his daughter gently nagging him.

"Two men travel back from China. Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. What did they see?" John mused, writing notes. Sherlock started scribbling on a napkin, which he had taken from in front of Elspeth, once again ignoring her when she protested. She laughed at John.

"It's not a conspiracy, John," she said, grinning.

"It's not what they saw; it's what they both brought back in those suitcases," Sherlock said.

"And you don't mean duty free. Thanks," John added when the waitress put down his plate in front of him. Elspeth thanked her as well, biting happily into her spring roll.

"Think about what Sebastian told us about Van Coon – about how he stayed afloat in the market."

"Lost five million . . ."

"And make it back in a week," Sherlock finished. "That's how he made such easy money."

Elspeth asked something around a mouthful of noodles, and though John couldn't understand her, Sherlock seemed to; he nodded.

"Yes, Ellie, he was a smuggler. A guy like him – it would have been perfect. Business man making frequent trips to Asia. And Lukis was the same, a journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off."

"But why did they die?" John asked. "I mean, it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they'd finished the job?"

"Maybe someone stole something," Elspeth suggested, twirling noodles around her fork. Looking up, she frowned at Sherlock. "What?"

"Stole something . . . stole something from the hoard," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "You brilliant girl."

Elspeth grinned. "I know."

"And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both," John concluded with a nod. "Right."

Sherlock looked out of the window towards the shop across the street and then at the windows above it before back to the shop, his gaze sharpening.

"Remind me," he said. He focused on a Yellow Pages phone directory sealed in a plastic wrapper outside the door to the flat that was next to the Lucky Cat. "when was the last time that it rained?"

Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock rose to his feet and strode out of the restaurant. John looked at Elspeth, who was gazing at her plateful of food mournfully – she'd only had a few bites – and sighed in exasperation before getting up and dutifully following Sherlock.

Sadly, Elspeth picked up her last spring roll and bit into it, taking it as she crossed the road to join Sherlock and John. She stood to the side, watching Sherlock bend down to run his fingers over the wet exposed pages of the directory.

"It's been here since Monday."

"We'll take your word for it," Elspeth muttered, glancing irritably towards the restaurant. She could see the waitress clearing their plates.

Sherlock straightened up and pressed the doorbell, waiting only a couple of seconds before heading off to the right, down an alleyway. Elspeth trailed after him.

"No-one's been in that flat for at least three days."

"Could've gone on holiday."

"Do _you_ leave your windows open when you go on holiday?"

He reached the rear of the building and looked up to see a metal fire escape above his head. Following his gaze, Elspeth watched as Sherlock took a short run and jumped up, grabbing the end. He pulled until it touched the ground, running up the steps towards an open window of the flat. As Sherlock reached the top, the ladder swung back into its horizontal position.

"Sherlock!"

"Dad!"

John knew he was too short to mimic Sherlock, running back to the front of the building. Elspeth took a long look at the ladder, stepped back and then ran.

Leaping up, Elspeth's fingers brushed against the bottom of the ladder before she fell to the ground. Her knees scraped against the concrete, ripping her jeans and grazing the skin so that when she stood up, they were bloody. Elspeth scowled and limped after John.

"Do you think maybe you could let me in this time?" John called, not noticing Elspeth's bleeding knees. There was a short pause before he bent down to push open the letterbox, calling through the gap. "Can you _not_ keep doing this, please?"

Sherlock called back but with the busy street behind him, John couldn't hear.

"_What_?"

"Somebody's been in here before me!" Sherlock shouted, his voice still muffled slightly even as John put his ear to the open letterbox.

"_What_ are you saying?"

"Don't bother, John, he's in the zone," Elspeth muttered, leaning against the wall and stretching her leg out. "Does this look infected to you?"

Turning around, John tutted when he saw Elspeth's knees. "What did you do?"

"Tried to copy Dad and failed miserably. I think we have some plasters at home."

"I have some in my room." He glanced back down at the letterbox and sighed. "I'm wasting my breath."

"Am I going to lose my leg?"

"_What_? No."

Seemingly satisfied by the answer, Elspeth continued to examine her knees. John frowned at her, unsure if he felt confused or amused by her, and flipped open the letterbox again.

"_Any_ time you want to include me."

"I'd over to pick the lock but we're in public and it's generally frowned upon," Elspeth said. "Plus I don't have any hairclips on me."

John straightened up, shook his head and began to pace in frustration.

"No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with my _massive intellect!" _

Elspeth raised her eyebrows, looking at John, and he looked back at her irritably. He didn't care that he'd just insulted her father in front of her because he was too angry.

A moment later, the front door opened and Sherlock stood in the doorway. John glared at him.

"The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago," he said, his voice rough and croaky, almost like he had a cold. Elspeth frowned.

"Somebody?" John asked.

"Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her."

"But how exactly?"

Bending down, Sherlock picked up a folded envelope. On the back was a note:

_SOO LIN. Please ring me, tell me you're OK. Andy._

Sherlock unfolded the envelope and looked at the front of it; printed in the corner were the words NATIONAL ANTIQITIES MUSEUM.

"Maybe we could start with this," he said, walking out and shutting the door behind him.

"Are you getting a cold, Dad?" Elspeth asked innocently as they strode down the street. Sherlock glared at her and she smiled back.

"I'm fine."

* * *

"When was the last time that you saw her?" Sherlock asked as he paced around a display area.

"Three days ago, um, here at the museum," the young man who'd introduced himself as Andy – the Andy who had left a note for Soo Lin Yao – stammered. Sherlock stopped and focused briefly on a glass case containing clay teapots. "This morning they told me she'd resigned just like that. Just left her work unfinished."

Sherlock turned around to face him. "What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?"

Andy hesitated slightly, his eyes flickering towards John and Elspeth, both of whom were waiting for his response, before gesturing for the three of them to follow him as he strode away.

"I thought exploiting the work force was a bit not good," Elspeth muttered under her breath.

"I'm hardly exploiting him," Sherlock retorted quietly.

"You and I both know that he has a crush on Soo Lin and you're using that to your advantage. That's exploiting him."

Sherlock glared at Elspeth and strode ahead of her. Elspeth stuck her tongue out.

Andy took the three of them to the basement archive, turning on the light as he led them in.

"She does this demonstration for the tourists – a-a tea ceremony. So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here."

Sherlock, John and Elspeth followed Andy to the open stack and turned a handle to widen the gap; John stood behind him, watching, but Sherlock found something more interesting in the shadows further along the room. He walked closer to it.

Looking over her shoulder, Elspeth realised that Sherlock had crossed the room and frowned, trailing after him.

On a stand, in the shadows of the room, was a life-sized sculpture of a nude woman with yellow spray paint on it. An almost horizontal line went across the eyes and on the body was an open upside down eight.

"Oh," Elspeth said quietly.

* * *

"We have to find Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock said as they strode out of the museum.

"If she's still alive," Elspeth said glumly.

"Ellie! Sherlock!"

"Oh look who it is," John muttered under his breath, scowling as Raz ran over towards them; he was still annoyed that he was getting an ASBO for Raz's actions.

"Found something you'll like," Raz said with a wide grin in Elspeth's direction. Sherlock and Elspeth quickly followed him when he trotted off, and John reluctantly trudged after them.

"Tuesday morning, all you've got to do is turn up and say the bag was yours," John told Raz as they strode across Hungerford Bridge, heading towards the south side of the river. Elspeth, who was walking next to Raz with her hands stuffed into her coat pockets – Raz had been subtly brushing his hand against hers – smirked, looking like she was trying not to laugh.

"Forget about your court date," Sherlock said.

John turned and glared at Sherlock in annoyance, grumbling under his breath, and Elspeth quickly disguised her laughter as a fit of coughing. Sherlock glanced at her in amusement.

"So where are we going, Raz?" Elspeth asked when she finally calmed down, grinning at him.

"The under-croft," Raz replied with a wide grin of his own. "You remember it, right?"

"Vaguely," Elspeth replied, her cheeks turning pink. She, Raz and a few other people had gotten drunk there the year before, and she couldn't remember much of the evening even to this day. She never told Sherlock, but she didn't need to. He already knew.

The under-croft walls were covered in graffiti and there were teenagers everywhere, spraying the walls and riding their bikes, drinking and smoking; John looked around, feeling rather out of place as he strode after Raz, but Elspeth smiled and waved at several of the people who greeted her. Looking at her, John never would've guessed that she even associated herself with those kind of people.

"If you want to hide a tree in the middle of a forest, this is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock asked, looking at John. "People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message."

"Just thinking it's another damn teenager's tag," Elspeth added with a grin.

"You'd know all about that."

Pretending to look offended, Elspeth strode after Raz. He pointed at a particular area on the heavily- graffitied wall.

"There. I spotted it earlier."

Amongst all the paint were slashes of yellow paint that formed the same Chinese symbols. Some of them had already been painted over by other tags and pictures.

"They _have_ been in here," Sherlock said. He looked at Raz. "And that's the exact same paint?"

"Yeah."

"So what now?" Elspeth asked Sherlock.

"If we're going to decipher this code," he replied. "we're going to need to look for more evidence."

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Bookworm45669, Starcrier, AlieCat, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, Adrillian1497, SmilingDreams and IAmRahaf for reviewing!


	10. Chapter 10

_**10.**_

Sherlock and John had split up, with Elspeth accompanying the former. The two of them walked along a railway line with torches in their hands, though Elspeth more interested in waving her light around, and Sherlock scowled at her over his shoulder.

"If you're not going to be of any help, you might as well go home."

"That's not very nice," Elspeth retorted. "You could get run over by a train and no one would be there to save you."

"Highly improbable."

"But not impossible."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock aimed his torch at an abandoned spray can on the tracks. He squatted down to pick it up and held the end of his torch in his mouth as he ran his thumb over the yellow paint on the nozzle, smelling it.

"Anything for a quick fix, hey Dad?"

Sherlock's grumble was muffled by the torch in his mouth. Elspeth grinned.

Standing up, Sherlock strode ahead of Elspeth. She huffed, lifted her torch and followed him.

"I'm hungry," she said casually. Sherlock didn't even look round as he took a snack bar out of his coat pocket, handing it to her. When she was young, Elspeth always complained about being hungry – mostly because Sherlock sometimes forgot to feed her – so he developed the habit of carrying snacks around, just in case. It wasn't often he did it, only when he anticipated her complaints.

Sherlock passed a wall with many posters stuck on it and one of them caught his attention. He tore the bottom corner off it and continued walking.

"What's that?" Elspeth asked around her mouthful of food. She watched Sherlock fold the piece of paper and put it into his pocket.

"Nothing for you to be concerned about."

"Well I probably should be if you're concerned enough to rip it off the wall."

"You always were facetious when you were tired," Sherlock commented.

"I know, it's amazing, isn't it?" Elspeth retorted.

John thankfully found the pair of them before they could snap at each other even more, panting slightly like he'd run a long way.

"Answer your phone!" he said to Sherlock. "I've been calling you! I've found it."

Sherlock and John ran off, and Elspeth groaned quietly before reluctantly chasing after them. She'd always been quite fast, because she was so slight and skinny, but she wasn't really that fit; by the time they got to the wall, she was panting and had a stitch in her side.

Tired, Elspeth leaned against the wall while John stared at it with wide eyes and an open mouth.

"It's been painted over!" he said incredulously. Sherlock shone his torch over it. "I don't understand. It – it was here ten minutes ago. I _saw_ it. A whole load of graffiti!"

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it," Sherlock said quietly.

"So they painted a whole frickin' wall?" Elspeth asked dubiously, pushing herself off the wall and scowling when she saw flecks of wet paint on the back of her jacket.

Turning around, Sherlock grabbed the sides of John's head with both his hands.

"Sherlock, what are you doing . . .?"

"Shh, John, concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

"No, what? Why? Why? What are you doing?" John demanded. Sherlock lowered his hands to John's arms, slowly spinning them around while staring intently into John's eyes. Elspeth giggled.

"I need you to maximise your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah."

"Can you remember it?"

"Yes, definitely."

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!"

"How _much_ can you remember it?"

"Well don't worry," John said, but Sherlock spoke over him.

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate," he said, the pair of them still spinning.

"Could you stop doing that? You're making me feel dizzy," Elspeth complained.

"Yeah, well, don't worry – I remember all of it," John promised.

"Really?" Sherlock asked disbelieving.

"Yeah, well at least I would –" John pulled himself free. "If I can get to my pockets!" He rummaged through his pockets. "I took a photograph."

Taking out his phone, John showed Sherlock and Elspeth the photo he had taken of the wall. It clearly showed all of the symbols. Sherlock took it from him, looking rather embarrassed.

"Why did they bother painting over the wall if they saw you take a photo?" Elspeth asked, frowning.

"Maybe they didn't see me take the photo," John suggested.

"Then how did they know you saw the wall?" Still frowning, Elspeth ran a hand through her unruly hair and pushed it away from her face. "I think they're just trying to confuse us."

"Excellent deduction, Ellie," Sherlock muttered, handing the phone back to John.

"Shut up, Dad."

Anticipating another disagreement between Sherlock and Elspeth, John quickly stepped in, reminding them of the case. Sherlock frowned and Elspeth looked slightly put out, crossing her arms, popping one hip to the side and raising her eyebrows. Though John didn't know, she looked uncannily like her mother in that moment.

"Can we go home now?" she asked impatiently.

* * *

"Here you go," Elspeth said, walking into the living room with a small stack of papers in her hands. "And here's your phone, still in one piece," she added, putting the phone on the dining room table. She'd been in her room printing off the photo he'd taken of the wall, cropping it into small sections.

Snatching the papers from her, Sherlock quickly pinned them around the mirror. Elspeth rolled her eyes and sat down in her father's armchair, curling up.

"I didn't notice anything weird," she said.

Sherlock looked closely at the photographs. "Always in pairs."

John, who had been sitting at the dining table with his head propped in his hands, jerked awake; he'd been dozing.

"Hmm?"

"Numbers come with partners," Sherlock said.

"God, I need to sleep," John muttered. Glancing over at Elspeth, he saw that she was close to falling asleep as well.

"Why did he paint it so near the tracks?"

"No idea," Elspeth mumbled tiredly, yawning.

"Thousands of people pass by there every day."

"Just twenty minutes . . ."

"Of course," Sherlock said, realisation dawning on him. "Of course! He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back. Somewhere here in the code." Pulling three photographs off the mirror, Sherlock whirled around to face John. "We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao."

"Oh good," John said with an exhausted sigh. Elspeth didn't respond and when the two men looked towards her, they saw that she had fallen asleep in Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock sighed, crouching over her and gently shaking Elspeth's shoulder. "Ellie," he said quietly. "We need to go back to the museum."

"Ok, I'm coming," Elspeth muttered sleepily. She sat up and planted her feet on the ground, realising she hadn't even taken off her boots before she'd fallen asleep. Pulling on her hoodie, she stumbled after Sherlock and John. "Why are we going?" she asked as Sherlock hailed a taxi.

"We need to find Soo Lin Yao."

"Alright." Elspeth was so tired that she didn't even question her father. She climbed into the taxi, sitting between the two men, and yawned loudly. "What about Andy?"

"What about him?" Sherlock asked, looking out of the window.

"Well he's alive, so maybe we should talk to _him,_" Elspeth mumbled tiredly.

* * *

"Two men who travelled back from China were murdered, and their killer left them messages in the Hangzhou numerals," Sherlock told Andy, standing with John and Elspeth in the same display room they'd met earlier that day.

"Soo Lin Yao's in danger," John said. "Now, that cipher – it was just the same pattern as the others."

"He's gonna kill her as well," Elspeth added quietly.

"Look, I've tried everywhere," Andy said with a hint of a whine in his voice, his eyes flickering between them. "Friends, colleagues. I – I don't know where she's gone. I mean, she could be a thousand miles away."

Elspeth rolled her eyes and Sherlock turned away in exasperation, his gaze resting on the nearby glass case containing the clay teapots.

"What are you looking at?" John asked, spotting Sherlock's wandering gaze.

"Tell me more about those teapots."

Andy looked surprised. "The – the pots were her obsession. Um, they need urgent work. If – if they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them."

Sherlock bent down to look more closely at the shelf.

"Yesterday, only one of those pots was shining. Now there are two."

"So?" Elspeth asked.

"So," Sherlock snapped back. "you –" he pointed at John and Elspeth. "need to get out of the way."

"Oh that's really charming."

"Where do you suggest we go?" John queried impatiently, crossing his arms.

"I'm sure Elspeth can find somewhere for you to hide, she seems to be quite an expert in that area."

Rolling her eyes, Elspeth turned and looked around the room, her eyes sweeping over the various display cases and statues. She looked towards the window with its long heavy curtains and then back at John.

"Those curtains," she said sharply to Andy, who jumped at being addressed so suddenly. "How thick are they?"

"Er . . . very, I think –"

"Great."

Elspeth strode away and after a few seconds, John realised that he should follow her. He felt rather stupid, hiding behind the curtains like he was a small boy again, but Elspeth looked so irritated that he didn't say anything. Instead, he watched as she hauled her petite frame up onto the windowsill and peeked through the small gap in the curtains.

None of them were quite sure as to how long they waited; Sherlock, having dismissed Andy, lurked in the shadows, keeping a careful look out for any figures in the darkness.

Before long, a shadowed figure – female, judging from the frame and delicate walk – crossed the room, opening the display case and carefully removing one of the teapots. They then left as quickly as they appeared.

Sherlock wasted no time in swiftly following the figure, with Elspeth and John close behind.

Oblivious to her small audience, Soo Lin swilled the teapot to cover it with drips of tea, completing her process. Sherlock approached her from behind.

"Fancy a biscuit with that?"

With a frightened gasp, Soo Lin turned to face him and dropped her teapot. Sherlock reacted instantly, his knees bending as he caught the teapot before it hit the floor.

"Centuries old," he scolded lightly. "You don't want to break that." Slowly straightening up, Sherlock handed the teapot back to her and smiled at her. "Hello."

"Hello," Soo Lin said quietly. Her eyes flickered behind him. "You are not alone."

"And you're not dead," Elspeth pointed out as she walked into the small room. "Hi."

Smiling slightly at Elspeth, Soo Lin turned and sat down at the desk, gesturing for her and John to do the same. Sherlock stood behind his daughter.

"You saw the cipher," Soo Lin said quietly. "Then you know he is coming for me."

"You've been clever to avoid him so far," Sherlock pointed out.

"I had to finish . . . to finish this work. It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

"Who is he? Have you met him before?"

Soo Lin nodded. "When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognise his . . . 'signature'."

"The cipher?" Elspeth asked.

"Only he would do this," Soo Lin confirmed. "Zhi Zhu."

"The Spider," Sherlock explained for John and Elspeth's benefit, noticing they both looked slightly confused. Lifting her right foot, Soo Lin unlaced her shoe and took it off, revealing the black tattoo of a lotus flower inside a circle on her heel.

"You know this mark?"

"Yes. It's the mark of a Tong. It's an ancient crime syndicate based in China."

"Every foot soldier bears the mark, everyone who hauls for them."

"_Hauls?"_ Elspeth repeated. "You were a smuggler?"

Slowly and softly, Soo Lin began to tell her story of how she had been sucked into the Black Lotus; she'd been homeless and parentless, and after years of working for them, she'd managed to leave it behind. But now they had found her.

"I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me, but they never really let you leave. A small community like ours – they are never very far away." She wiped a tear out of her eye. "He came to my flat. He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen."

"And you've no idea what it was?" John asked.

"I refused to help."

"So you knew him well when you were living back in China?"

"Oh yes." Soo Lin hesitated before looking up at Sherlock. "He's my brother." She went on to explain the meeting between her and her brother, concluding that after turning him down, she'd arrived at work to find the cipher waiting for her.

Elspeth frowned, glancing up at Sherlock. She wondered if he would refuse to help her if she was in the same position as Soo Lin's brother.

"Can you decipher these?" Sherlock asked, lying the photographs he'd taken from 221B on the table.

"These are numbers."

"Yes, I know."

"Here, the line across the man's eyes – it's the Chinese number one."

"And this one is fifteen. But what's the code?"

"All the smugglers know it. It's based upon a book –" Soo Lin cut herself off as all the lights suddenly went out, her face full of terror. "He's here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me."

"Ellie," Sherlock said, his daughter looking up at him. "Stay here."

Before she could respond, he raced across the room and disappeared from sight. Grabbing Soo Lin by the hand and gesturing for Elspeth to follow, John took them to a smaller room. All three of them froze at the sound of gunshot.

"Dad," Elspeth whispered, lurching forwards; John caught her quickly, holding her back.

"Stay here and bolt the door behind me," he said urgently. "I have to go and help."

Elspeth made to follow him as John hurried out of the room but Soo Lin grabbed the younger woman by the hand, stopping her.

"You have to hide."

"But he'll kill you!" Elspeth hissed incredulously.

"And he will kill you too if he sees you," Soo Lin replied with a look of dread in her eyes. They both jumped when they heard even more gunshots, the blood rushing from Elspeth's face. Quickly, Soo Lin led Elspeth to a small space between a few display cases, where the younger woman crouched out of sight. Soo Lin gave her a small smile before turning and hiding as well.

Elspeth's heart beat so loudly that she was certain the shooter would hear it. She stifled a frightened whimper when Soo Lin slowly crawled out from her hiding spot, approaching the table before standing up. She slowly turned around.

"Liang," she whispered, seeing her brother behind her. "Big brother. Please . . ."

The gunshot rang throughout the museum.

Freezing, John's heart sunk as he realised where the sound had come from. "Oh God," he whispered, abandoning his search for Sherlock and running as fast as he could to the restoration room. He slowed down before entering the room, looking around cautiously for any sign of the gunman. Cautiously, John made his way across the room and then stopped, groaning with despair and guilt when he saw Soo Lin's lifeless body lying across the table.

Sherlock rushed into the room, eyes darting about. They rested briefly on Soo Lin.

"Ellie," he hissed.

"I'm here," a small voice replied. Following the sound of her voice, Sherlock crouched down by her hiding place and was greeted with the sight of her pale, tear-streaked face. Elspeth looked up at him, trembling. "Is she dead?" she asked.

Slowly, Sherlock nodded. Letting out a small sob, Elspeth crawled out from her hiding place and let Sherlock hug her, burying her face into his chest so she wouldn't have to see Soo Lin.

"Sherlock," John said quietly. "Look." He held something up for Sherlock to see. "It was in her hand."

Sherlock looked up. In John's hand was a small black origami lotus flower.

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Bookworm45669, Starcrier, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, IAmRahaf, AlieCat, Adrillian1497 and EmilyDoreen for reviewing!

I've had several questions about Elspeth's mum; don't worry, all shall be revealed soon! I've planned for the explanation to be set in The Great Game, which shouldn't be too long, so please be patient with me. I promise that she'll make an appearance though!


	11. Chapter 11

_**11.**_

"How many murders is it going to take before you start believing that this maniac's out there?" John demanded angrily, watching Dimmock rummage through the paperwork on his desk with his back to them. "A young girl was gunned down tonight. That's three victims in three days. You're supposed to be finding him. Ellie could've been shot!" he added with a frustrated gesture towards Elspeth, who was sitting in a chair in front of the desk.

"Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers – a gang called the Black Lotus operating here in London right under your nose," Sherlock said quietly, leaning forwards so he stood close to Dimmock.

Finally, Dimmock turned around to face him. "Can you prove that?"

* * *

"Not just a criminal organisation," Sherlock said as he and John strode into the living room of 221B, having just proven to Dimmock that Lukis and Van Coon were part of the Black Lotus. "It's a cult. Her brother was corrupted by one of its leaders."

"Soo Lin said the name," John reminded him quietly, glancing towards Elspeth. Rather than join Sherlock and John at St Bart's, she'd gone home with the excuse that she had a headache. She was fast asleep on the sofa when they returned.

"Yes, Shan. General Shan."

"We're still no closer to finding them."

"Wrong," Sherlock retorted. "We've got almost all we need to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces."

John didn't say anything, looking slightly confused, and Sherlock sighed.

"Why did he need to visit his sister?" he asked impatiently. "Why did he need her expertise?"

"She worked at the museum."

"Exactly."

"An expert in antiquities," John said, slowly catching on. "Mmm, of course. I see."

"_Valuable_ antiquities, John," Sherlock said. "Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures hidden after Mao's revolution."

"And the Black Lotus is selling them."

Tilting his head to the side as if he had an idea, Sherlock strode past John and into his bedroom, where he retrieved his laptop. He took it to the dining room table, turned it on and opened the internet, his fingers drumming against the surface impatiently. John got up from his chair to stand behind Sherlock, looking over his shoulder.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"Recent auctions," Sherlock said, scrolling through the website he'd found. He had narrowed the search down to any Chinese or Asian works of art. "Check for the dates," he murmured to himself, still skimming. "Here, John."

Sherlock pointed and John looked at the image of the two Chinese Ming vases.

"Arrived from China four days ago." Sherlock checked the sales information. "Anonymous. Vendor doesn't give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East."

"One in Lukis' suitcase and one in Van Coon's."

Sherlock quickly typed out a new sentence into the search bar, saying it aloud as he did so, and waited for the results list to load.

"Look, here's another one," he said, pointing. "Arrived from China a month ago: Chinese ceramic statue, sold four hundred thousand."

John consulted Lukis' diary. "Ah, look, a month before that – a Chinese painting, half a million."

"All of them from an anonymous source. They're stealing them back in China and one by one they're feeding them into Britain."

"And every single auction coincides with Lukis or Van Coon travelling to China."

"So what if one of them got greedy when they were in China? What if one of them stole something?"

"That's why Zhi Zhu's come."

"You two are being really loud," Elspeth complained quietly from the living room, making both men jump guiltily. She lifted her head, pushed her hair out of her face and glowered at them both sleepily. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock grinned back brightly.

Mrs Hudson knocked on the living room door. "Sorry," she said, as if she was interrupting something. "Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?"

"What?" Elspeth asked, still half asleep.

"A young man's outside with crates of books."

"Tell him to bring them up," Sherlock said to Mrs Hudson.

"I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock!" she complained half-heartedly, trotting back down the stairs to tell the men to bring up their crates. Elspeth yawned and curled up on the sofa, hugging her knees. She watched as the police officers carried in many plastic crates, dumping them in any space available.

"So the numbers are references," Sherlock said, making no attempt to help.

"To books," John guessed.

"To specific pages and specific words on those pages."

"Right, so . . . fifteen and one, that means . . ."

"Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read," Elspeth said wearily. She stretched her legs out in front of her.

"Ok, so what's the message?"

"That depends on the book," Sherlock retorted. "That's the cunning of the book code. It has to be one that they both owned."

John's eyes were filled with despair as he looked around at the many crates in the room, each either marked 'Lukis' or 'Van Coon'.

"Okay," he said. "Right. Well, this shouldn't take too long, should it?"

Elspeth smiled back at him weakly, rising to her feet and flipping open the lid of the nearest box. She sighed when she saw how many books were in it, looking over her shoulder and feeling relieved when John also huffed in despair. Sherlock opened another crate and started taking out the books, looking at the cover in each one, and John did the same, carrying an armful of books to the dining room table.

Dimmock strode into the living room, glancing irritably in Elspeth's direction and receiving a sour look in return. He held up an evidence bag.

"We found these at the museum."

He showed the bag, which contained the photographs of the cipher they had taken to Soo Lin, to John.

"Is this your writing?"

"Uh, we hoped Soo Lin could decipher it for us," John said shortly, taking the bag from Dimmock. "Ta."

Elspeth caught John's eye across the room and she smirked. He grinned back.

"Anything else I can do?" Dimmock asked, looking at Sherlock. "To assist you, I mean?"

"Some silence right now would be marvellous," Sherlock replied without turning around.

"But thanks for the offer," Elspeth added sarcastically, venom dripping off her words, and she gave Dimmock a look John wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of; her eyebrows raised slightly, she gave him an insincere smile before turning her back on him again.

Looking slightly incredulous, Dimmock looked at John, who smiled and shrugged apologetically. Elspeth watched as he strode back out of the living room silently.

Sherlock took out a book from his crate and realised that he had already taken the same book out of a different crate, putting them side by side. He opened one of them to page fifteen, looked at first word on the page and frowned.

"Cigarette," he read out. He slammed the book shut.

Sherlock went back to rummaging through the crates and John made a small pile on the floor before turning his attention to another crate. Elspeth abandoned her crate, wandering across the room to join John.

"Two's better than one," she reasoned when he looked up.

Before long, Sherlock found another pair of identical books, flicking to page fifteen and reading out the first word.

"Imagine," Sherlock muttered. Elspeth then started to sing _Imagine_ under her breath which, while pleasant to hear, was rather distracting. Sherlock snapped at her to shut up; Elspeth scowled and slammed down a few books onto the table with more force than was necessary.

As the night went on, Sherlock took off his jacket and John stripped out of his thick cardigan, both of them continuing to search through the crates. Elspeth looked dead on her feet and her eyes were bloodshot but she hadn't stopped all night.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, looking around the crates and sighing. An alarm on John's watch went off, making Elspeth jump. John looked at it and then out of the window as if to confirm that it really was morning. He sighed tiredly.

* * *

"You're home early," Sherlock commented, not looking up from the book in his hands, when Elspeth trudged into the living room several hours before she usually arrived home. She glared at him with heavy lidded eyes, flopping onto the sofa.

"I got sent home by my form tutor," she grumbled. "I fell asleep in Art."

"That explains the paint in your hair."

Elspeth's hand flew up to her hair and she groaned when her fingertips came away tinged bright blue. She felt like she might cry.

"I'm going to have a shower," she said wearily. After a few seconds, she made no attempt to move. Sherlock looked at her. "Just . . . give me a minute."

It took Elspeth a few minutes to find the strength to get up and go into the bathroom. By the time she was out, John had arrived back at 221B. He looked incredibly happy.

"You're home early," he said to Elspeth.

"You look unusually happy," she returned, curling up on the sofa with her damp hair tumbling down her shoulders and turning on the TV.

"Yes, well, I've had a good day, that's all."

"Huh," Elspeth said quietly. She eyed him suspiciously and John smiled back as he left the living room.

"A book that everybody would own," Sherlock muttered. Turning to his bookcase, Sherlock took down three books and opened the first to the correct page. "Fifteen. Entry one."

Elspeth watched disinterestedly as her father continued searching through the books, looking away when John strode back into the room. He was wearing a fresh change of clothes.

"Looking good, John," she teased, grinning when he blushed.

"I need to get some air," Sherlock announced. "We're going out tonight."

"Actually, I've, er, got a date," John replied, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket.

"What?"

"Who with?"

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

"That's what_ I_ was suggesting," Sherlock retorted.

"No it wasn't," John grumbled. He hesitated slightly before adding under his breath, "at least I _hope_ not."

"Where are you taking her?"

"The cinema."

"Oh, dull, boring, predictable," Sherlock criticised. He took a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket, walking across the room to hand it to John. "Why don't you try this?"

Elspeth realised that the paper was the strip of the poster Sherlock had ripped off the other night and John looked at it; there was an advertisement for the Yellow Dragon Circus.

"It's in London for one night only."

"Thanks," John said, chuckling and handing the paper back to Sherlock. "But I don't come to you for dating advice."

* * *

"It's been _years_ since anyone took me to the circus," Sarah said as she and John walked up the slope towards the building.

"Right, yes!" John said nervously. "Well, it's . . . a friend recommended it to me. He phoned up."

"Ah. What are they, a touring company or something?"

"I don't know much about it."

Pausing, Sarah looked up at the lanterns strung outside the hall. "I think they're probably from China!" she joked.

"Yes, I think . . . I think so, yes."

They walked up the stairs together, towards the box office, and John cleared his throat.

"Hi. I have, er, two tickets reserved for tonight."

"And what's the name?"

John glanced towards Sarah. "Er, Holmes."

The person at the desk rifled through the reservations and took out an envelope, checking it for tickets.

"Actually, I have four in that name."

"No, I don't think so," John said in confusion. "We only booked two."

"And then I phoned back and got two more."

Looking up in disbelief, John had to supress his groan when he saw Sherlock standing behind him, accompanied by Elspeth, who looked rather pretty in a dress and boots. She smiled warmly at Sarah, who stared back with a lost expression.

Also smiling, Sherlock extended his hand. "I'm Sherlock. This is my daughter, Elspeth."

Sarah glanced at John, turning around and shaking Sherlock's hand rather nervously.

"Er . . . hi."

"Hello."

Sherlock's smile was quick and fake, and he instantly turned around, striding up the steps. Elspeth rocked on the balls of her feet, smiling awkwardly at Sarah, before quickly following him.

"I'm so sorry," John said immediately. "I had no idea he'd do that."

"It's fine," Sarah replied with a forced smile. John's heart sunk slightly. "Honestly, I think it's nice he's come along . . . and brought his daughter." Sarah looked over John's shoulder at Elspeth, who seemed to be berating Sherlock. "It's fine," she insisted. "I'm just going to pop to the loo before it starts."

"Alright, we'll wait for you."

John watched Sarah walk away, scowled and strode up the steps. Elspeth bit her bottom lip.

"Hi John," she said, grinning sheepishly at him.

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock asked, like he didn't know.

"You couldn't let me have just one night off?" John hissed. He moved out of the way when a few people walked up the steps, making their way past him.

"Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day. It _fits_," Sherlock replied. "The Tong sent an assassin to England –"

"Dressed as a tightrope walker," John interrupted. "Come on, Sherlock, behave!"

"We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity?" Sherlock retorted. "Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look round the place."

"You do that, I'm going to take Sarah for a pint."

"Ooh, romantic," Elspeth muttered under her breath, pushing the long braid she'd tied her hair into over her shoulder.

"I need your help," Sherlock said sternly. Elspeth rolled her eyes; she was under the impression that _she_ was helping her father because John was on a date.

"I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening!"

"Like _what_?"

John stared at him in disbelief. "You _are_ kidding."

"No, he's really not," Elspeth told him. For a man who was a supposed father, Sherlock could be incredibly dense when it came to romance. Perhaps dense wasn't the right word though. He was almost ignorant, like he couldn't comprehend why people fell in love and spent the rest of their lives together.

"What's so important?" Sherlock demanded, looking put out that John wasn't as willing to help as he expected.

"Sherlock, I'm right in the middle of a date. Do you want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to –" John cut himself off suddenly, looking uncomfortable.

"What?"

John lost his patience, raising his voice as he snapped, "while I'm trying to get off with Sarah!"

Inevitably, Sarah walked around the corner at that exact moment, smiling rather awkwardly. Elspeth had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing.

"Hey!" John said a bit too brightly, covering up his outburst. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ready?"

"Yeah!" Sarah said, also sounding a bit too bright, too embarrassed to tell John that she'd overheard him. They strode up the stairs together and Sherlock made to follow them, but Elspeth grabbed his coat sleeve.

"Dad," she said slowly. "Just . . . give them a bit of space, yeah? They're on a date."

Rolling his eyes again, Sherlock bit back his retort and instead offered his arm to Elspeth, smiling pleasantly.

"Would you care to accompany me?" he asked, making her laugh. Her arm looped around his, Elspeth strode up the steps with her father. The night was certainly going to be a memorable one.

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Smiling Dreams, Starcrier, Adrillian1497, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, Bookworm45669, thestargazer7 and AlieCat for reviewing!


	12. Chapter 12

**_12._**

The performance area wasn't as they expected it to be. A large circle of candles was laid out on the floor, creating a dim light in the otherwise dark room, but there were no seats for anyone to sit in; instead, the audience stood around the circle. The tickets must've been limited, as the audience was very small. There was enough room for everyone to stand and still have a clear view.

John and Sarah stood side by side, and Elspeth awkwardly lingered on John's other side, looking over her shoulder at Sherlock. He stood behind the couple with his back to them, craning his neck back to peer up at the ceiling.

"You said circus," John hissed, turning away so Sarah wouldn't hear. "This is not a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is . . . art."

"This is not their day job."

"No, sorry, I forgot. They're not a circus, they're a gang of international smugglers."

Someone started tapping on a small hand drum, signalling that the performance had begun, and Sherlock turned around to watch it, much to John's surprise.

An ornately costumed Chinese woman with a heavily painted face – "The Opera Singer," Sherlock murmured to Elspeth – walked into the centre of the circle, looking imperiously at the audience before raising a hand in the air. The drumming stopped.

The Opera Singer walked across the circle to a large object that was covered in a white cloth, which she pulled back to reveal an antique-looking crossbow on a stand. Picking up a long wooden arrow with feathers on the end and a metal point on the other end, she showed it to the audience before fitting it into the crossbow. Elspeth watched with bated breath as the Opera Singer then removed a feather from her headdress, gently dropping it into the metal cup at the rear of the crossbow.

Instantly, the arrow was released, whizzing across the room. Elspeth flinched and Sarah looked at John, laughing as she put her hand over her heart.

Another person entered the circle, greeted with applause, wearing chainmail and an ornate head mask. He held his arms out to the sides and two men started to attach heavy chains and straps to him, strapping his arms in front of him. The man then backed up against a board, the other two chaining him to it.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," Sherlock said softly. John looked at him.

"Mmm?"

"The crossbow's on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

Elspeth watched as another arrow was placed in the crossbow, the men pulling the chains tight so that the masked man cried out as his head was yanked back against the board. The chains were then looped through solid rings attached to the board, securing the warrior, and a cymbal crashed unexpectedly; jumping, Sarah clutched John's arm.

"Oh God, I'm sorry!" she said, laughing in embarrassment. John laughed with her, grinning in delight when Sarah kept her hand on his arm. Elspeth looked at them and rolled her eyes.

The Opera Singer picked up a small knife, displaying it to the audience.

"She splits the sandbag," Sherlock explained. "The sand pours out. Gradually the weight lowers into the bowl."

The Opera Singer did just as Sherlock said, and while the sand started to pour out, Elspeth saw her father walk away. Glancing at John and Sarah, she quickly followed him.

"Where are you going?" she hissed.

Sherlock didn't answer, crossing the performance area to climb onto the unused stage at the side. Elspeth huffed and he turned around, offering her his hand.

"Thank you," she said tartly. The two of them went behind the curtains and saw that the stage was being used as the dressing room. There was a dressing table with mirrors, free-standing clothes rails and several other bits of costumes lying about; if she had the time, Elspeth would've looked around properly. Sherlock glanced towards the warrior costume that was hanging up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant moonlight shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure the deadly Chinese bird-spider," the Opera Singer announced on the other side of the curtains. Sherlock parted them slightly, looking at the acrobat with interest.

"Well well," he muttered to himself.

"What?" Elspeth asked, joining him by the curtain.

The stage door opened. Whirling around, Sherlock grabbed Elspeth's arm, both of them running to take cover behind the clothes rail. He gently pushed Elspeth down and she crouched on the floor silently, barely daring to breathe as they watched the Opera Singer pick up her mobile phone from the dressing table, checking it. One of the hangers fell to the floor. She looked round sharply, slowly approaching the rail. Sherlock ducked down.

Elspeth breathed out in relief when the Opera Singer left the dressing table, giggling slightly. Sherlock smiled at her briefly and looked down, spotting the bag near his feet. He flipped it open, finding several spray cans inside.

"Found you," Elspeth sung quietly, grinning as she picked up one of the cans and showed Sherlock the yellow band across the bottom of it.

Sherlock took it from her and pushed the clothes out of the way as he walked over to the mirrors, shaking the can as he went. Elspeth stood up, carefully stepping out from behind the clothes rail.

Spraying an almost horizontal line across the mirror, Sherlock looked in the mirror at the warrior's costume. It was no longer empty, he realised, as the man wearing it stepped away from the stand, walking towards him.

The man charged forwards, lashing out with a large knife. Sherlock ducked backwards, grabbing Elspeth as he stumbled, pulling her behind him. Elspeth fell over, landing heavily on her bottom.

Sherlock used the can he held in one hand as a weapon, using it to block a blow from the warrior, ducking as the warrior aimed another blow at him. Hitting his elbow, Sherlock fell as the man kicked him hard in the stomach.

The warrior grabbed Sherlock by the throat, dropping his knife in the process, and Elspeth ran forwards to propel herself into the man. She was tiny compared to the warrior, but he hadn't been expecting the collision, so they both went falling to the ground. Elspeth was thrown off him, landing with a heavy bang on hear, and she felt a sudden gush of air leave her lungs when the warrior kicked her in the stomach.

Sherlock lunged for the warrior; he was propelled backwards as the warrior kicked him hard in the chest, falling straight off the edge of the stage and landing on his back. He struggled to get upright again and the warrior approached him, holding the knife up in the air.

The audience fled and John ran forwards, seeing his friend was in danger, only to be thrown into the stage by the warrior.

Climbing to her feet and groaning when she felt a stabbing pain in her stomach, Elspeth looked around the room. Her eyes rested on a large wooden pole, probably used by one of the acrobats, and she snatched it up as she raced across the stage, leaping off it. The warrior was completely focused on Sherlock, his sword raised, and Elspeth ran forwards, hitting him hard over the head with the pole. He groaned, stumbling slightly, but before he could turn around she hit him just as hard in the ribs, pushing him over.

As Elspeth straightened up, feeling slightly breathless and brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, Sherlock sat up, pulling off the warrior's shoe to reveal a Tong tattoo on his foot.

"Are you alright?" Sarah asked, rushing to John's side as he straightened up, still trying to catch his breath. He insisted he was alright despite being doubled over in pain, looking at Elspeth in astonishment.

"Remind me never to piss you off," he told her. Elspeth grinned brightly.

"Come on!" Sherlock said, racing across the room to the exit. "Let's go!"

John grabbed Sarah by the hand, tugging her along, and Elspeth gave the nearly unconscious man by her feet a final glare before following them.

* * *

"I sent a couple of cars," Dimmock said irritably, striding into his office with Sherlock, John, Elspeth and a bewildered looking Sarah behind him. "The old hall is totally deserted."

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus – that tattoo that we saw on the two bodies," Sherlock insisted. "The mark of the Tong."

"I saw it too," Elspeth added, but Dimmock ignored her.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a smuggling operation," John explained. "Now, one of them stole something when they were in China, something valuable."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back."

"Get _what_ back?" Dimmock demanded impatiently. Sherlock bit his lip, looking away.

"We don't know," John said quietly.

"You don't know," Dimmock repeated. "Mr Holmes, I've done everything you asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something." At that, Sherlock looked up with a small smile. "I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it – other than a massive bill for overtime."

* * *

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow," John said as he followed Sherlock into the living room of 221B, with Sarah and Elspeth close behind.

"No, they won't leave without what they came for. We need to find their hide-out, the rendezvous," Sherlock said, walking forwards and looking intently at the photos around the mirror. Elspeth flopped into Sherlock's chair and Sarah hovered awkwardly in the doorway.

"Somewhere in this message it _must_ tell us."

Sherlock and John fell silent. Sarah continued to hover for a few seconds.

"Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it," she finally said, realising that she wasn't of any help.

"No, no, you don't have to go," John insisted, turning around. He looked at Sherlock. "Does she?" he looked back at Sarah. "You can stay."

"Yes, it would be better to study if you left now," Sherlock said simultaneously. John gave him a dark look.

"He's kidding. Please stay if you'd like."

Sarah looked nervously towards Sherlock and Elspeth felt slightly bad for her, knowing how difficult her father must be to get along with for people who weren't used to him.

"Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?" Sarah asked with an awkward smile. Sherlock shut his eyes.

"Oh God," he muttered in exasperation.

"Oh, erm, take a seat and I'll get some snacks," John said quickly, clearing the mess of the sofa so Sarah could sit down. She glanced at the odd stain on one of the cushions and perched on the edge. Elspeth gave her a small smile when their eyes met.

While John searched through the kitchen for something to eat, finding only a few bottles, a can and what appeared to be an eyeball in the fridge, Sherlock turned his back on the mirror and sat at the kitchen tbale, which was already covered in his notes. Getting up from the armchair, Elspeth sat across from her father.

"Anything I can do?" she asked.

"Probably not."

Rolling her eyes, Elspeth curled her legs up so that her knees were pressed against her chest. Sarah got up from the sofa and looked at the photos around the mirror.

"So this is what you do, you and John," she said. "You solve puzzles for a living."

"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrected tetchily, not even turning around. Elspeth tried not to laugh.

"Oh. And you . . . you help, Elspeth?"

"Yeah . . ." Elspeth grinned to herself. "It's kinda the family business."

Sherlock looked up from his notes, sharing a secret grin with his daughter.

Moving away from the mirror, Sarah then hovered behind Sherlock and looked over his shoulder.

"What are these squiggles?"

Sherlock's grin fell and he suddenly looked like he was refraining himself from punching Sarah. "They're numbers. An ancient Chinese dialect."

"Oh, right! Yeah, well, of course I should have known that."

John looked at Sarah over his shoulder and opened a cupboard, finding a small bag of Wotsits. He poured the crisps into a bowl, looking up as Mrs Hudson sneaked inside. He felt a wave of relief when he saw the tray in her hands.

"I've done punch, and a bowl of nibbles," she whispered, putting the tray on the table to reveal a jug of punch, crisps and a dip.

"Mrs Hudson, you're a saint!" John whispered back.

"If it was Monday, I'd have been to the supermarket!"

"No, thank you! _Thank_ you!"

Mrs Hudson hurried back out of the room, gently squeezing Elspeth's shoulder as she passed, and Sherlock looked like he was going to commit murder as Sarah picked up the photograph in an evidence bag. Glaring at her with utter fury, he looked away.

"So these numbers – it's a cipher."

"Exactly," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. Elspeth bit her lip.

"And each pair of numbers is a word."

Sherlock looked up, meeting Sarah's eyes for the first time that evening, and he stared at her for a few seconds.

"How did you know that?"

"Well, two words have already been translated, here."

She put down the picture, showing it to Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock said quietly, picking the photo up.

"Yeah?"

"John, look at this."

Elspeth got up from her seat, sitting in the one next to Sherlock, and John left the kitchen, standing behind them. Sherlock took the photo out of the evidence bag it had been placed in.

"Soo Lin at the museum – she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it!"

A word had been written across each of the first two sets of symbols on the photograph.

"Nine mill," Sherlock read out.

"Mill as in million?" Elspeth asked, peering over her father's shoulder.

"Nine million quid. For what?" Turning around, Sherlock picked up his coat and scarf. "We need to know the end of this sentence."

"Where are you going?" John asked in exasperation.

"To the museum, to the restoration room. Oh, we must have been staring right at it!"

"At . . . at what?"

"The book, John. The _book_ – the key to cracking the cipher!" Sherlock brandished the photo. "Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk."

He rushed out of the living room, the door swinging shut behind him. John looked at Elspeth.

"Aren't you going with him?"

"Nope," she said. "I'm not crashing your date, am I?"

John couldn't find a polite way to say yes, looking at Sarah. "No, no, it's fine," she insisted. "This is your home. It's fine, isn't it John?"

"Uh . . . yeah. It's fine."

Elspeth smiled, picked up a book and made herself comfortable on the sofa. Smiling fondly at her, John guided Sarah to the kitchen. They made polite conversation and Elspeth heard them both giggling when Sarah made something that sounded like a joke.

"Um, shall we get a takeaway?" John asked suddenly.

"Yeah!" Sarah agreed all too enthusiastically.

"Ellie, do you want something to eat?"

"Yes please!"

"Come and help me find the menus then, Sherlock's moved them _again._"

Sarah laughed quietly, watching Elspeth jump up and search through the drawers with John, both of them yelling in triumph when they found them. Their heads bent over the menu, the two women made their orders and John had to write everything down so he wouldn't forget, repeating it down the phone to the takeaway.

"He's lovely, isn't he?" Sarah said softly, sitting in the chair John had previously occupied. Elspeth smiled.

"He's alright," she joked. "He's . . . great. Honestly."

Hanging up the phone, John looked at the two women, startled when they both grinned at him.

"What?"

"Nothing," Elspeth said sweetly. Sarah pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.

"We're talking about you, not to you."

His eyes flickering between them, John sighed in resignation and picked up the jug of punch Mrs Hudson had made.

"Want a drink, Sarah?"

"Ooh yes please."

"I'll have on too, thanks," Elspeth said hopefully.

"No."

Someone knocked on the front door, startling them all. "Blimey, that was quick," John commented, putting the jug down. "I'll just pop down."

"I'll get it," Elspeth volunteered, sliding off her seat. "Don't do anything crazy while I'm gone," she added, pointing accusingly at them.

"Should I lay the table?" Sarah asked John, who grimaced at the kitchen table. It was covered with Sherlock's paperwork and experiments.

"Eat off trays?"

"Yeah."

Bounding down the steps, Elspeth opened the front door and took her purse out of her coat pocket, where it was hanging on the wall.

"Hi, sorry to keep you," she said. "How much do we owe you?"

"Do you have it?"

Elspeth looked up in surprise, staring at the man wearing a hoodie. Her eyes narrowed when she saw a distinct lack of takeaway in his hands.

"Sorry?"

"Do you have the treasure?" he demanded, stepping forwards.

"What treasure? Dude, you're out of your –"

Before Elspeth could finish her sentence, the man hit her hard over the head and everything went black.

* * *

Thank you Starcrier, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Adrillian1497, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, Bookworm45669, SaphireBlue78 and SJBHasADayPass for reviewing!

Yes, Elspeth stole Sarah's moment of glory by beating up the warrior that was threatening Sherlock, but I thought it was more fitting that his daughter defended him. Not that I have anything against Sarah; I do actually like her character.


	13. Chapter 13

_**13.**_

The only thing John remembered before he got knocked out was that he and Sarah had been searching for some clean cutlery when two men burst into the living room. It was all a blur after that.

Slowly regaining his consciousness, John blinked several times and realised that he was tied to a chair. Sarah and Elspeth, who had been awake for longer than he had, were sitting either side of him.

"A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket," a familiar voice said in the darkness of the tunnel.

John looked at Sarah, who was bound and gagged, and she looked back with terror in her eyes. Looking to his other side, he watched Elspeth as she struggled furiously against the ropes that bound her, glaring at the approaching woman.

"Chinese proverb, Mr Holmes," the Opera Singer from the circus said.

"I . . . I'm not Sherlock Holmes."

"Forgive me if I do not take your word for it," she replied, smiling humourlessly. John protested when she opened his jacket and took his wallet out of the inside pocket.

"Debit card, name of S. Holmes."

Remembering that morning he had struggled with the shopping, John sighed in exasperation. Elspeth began to protest against the gag in her mouth.

"Yes, that's not actually mine. He lent that to me."

"A cheque for five thousand pounds made out in the name of Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, he gave me that to look after."

"Tickets from the theatre, collected by you, name of Holmes."

"Yes, ok," John said with a sigh of resignation. "I realise what this looks like, but I'm not him."

"We heard it from your own mouth," the Opera Singer replied. "I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone."

Elspeth turned her glare on John, giving him such a sour look that he was pleased looks couldn't kill.

"Did I really say that?" He chucked weakly. "I suppose there's no use me trying to persuade you I was doing an impression."

Before he could really finish his sentence, the Opera Singer raised a small pistol and pointed it at John's head. He cringed away from it, his heart racing furiously as the woman smiled back at him.

"I am Shan."

John stared at her. Elspeth stopped struggling.

"You're . . . _you're_ Shan?"

"Three times we tried to kill you and your companion, Mr Holmes. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?"

Raising her other hand, Shan cocked the pistol. John cringed away, whimpering quietly under his breath as he struggled against his bonds, his breaths quick and ragged. Shan's finger tightened on the trigger. Elspeth stared in fear as Shan pulled the trigger all the way.

The gun clicked. John flinched and Shan smiled smugly.

"It tells you that they're not really trying."

John let out a long breath, trying to get control of himself.

Shan slid a clip into the pistol, paying no attention to Elspeth even when she screamed against the gag, desperately trying to get free, and then pointed the gun at John's head again.

"Not blank bullets now."

"Ok," John whispered.

"If we wanted to kill you, Mr Holmes, we would have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive." Shan looked at John sternly. "Do you have it?"

"Do I have what?"

"The treasure."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I would prefer to make certain." Shan looked over her shoulder at the two men behind her, one of whom pulled the cover off the large object at their feet to reveal the crossbow that had been used at the circus. An arrow was already loaded.

"Everything in the West has its price and the price for _her_ life," Shan said, turning to look at Elspeth. "is information."

The two men picked up Elspeth's chair. She cried out, staring at John with desperate eyes.

"No," John protested. "No, please, leave her alone!"

Elspeth's chair was put on the other side of the crossbow, the arrow pointing directly at her. She stared at it, crying and tugging in vain, and Shan glared at John.

"Where's the hairpin?"

"What?"

"The Empress pin valued at nine million sterling. We already had a buyer in the West, and then one of our people was greedy. He took it, brought it back to London and you, Mr Holmes, have been searching."

"Please. Please, listen to me," John begged. "I'm not . . . I'm not Sherlock Holmes. You _have_ to believe me. I haven't found whatever it is you're looking for."

"I need a volunteer from the audience!" Shan said loudly. She turned to Elspeth. "Ah, thank you, young lady. You'll do very nicely."

Smiling, Shan took out a knife and reached up to the sandbag suspended over a pulley hanging from the ceiling. She stabbed the blade into the bag and sand began to pour out; Elspeth's heart missed a beat when she recognised the trick from the circus.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Shan said. "From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes' pretty daughter in a death-defying act!"

"_Please,_" John pleaded desperately. Shan ignored him, placing a black origami lotus flower on Elspeth's lap.

"You've seen the act before. How dull for you. You know how it ends."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" John yelled frantically.

"I don't believe you."

"You should you know."

Tears of relief sprung to Elspeth's eyes when she heard Sherlock's voice echo throughout the abandoned tunnel.

"Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him."

Shan raised her pistol, aiming it towards Sherlock, but he disappeared into the shadows.

"How would _you_ describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

"Late?" John retorted.

"That's a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand metres per second."

"Well?"

"Well –" Sherlock paused to hit the thug running towards him in the stomach with a metal pole, smiling when the man collapsed to the ground in pain. "The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit _anyone_. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit _you_."

Sherlock suddenly burst out of the shadows, kicking over one of the burning dustbins so that Shan could no longer see in that portion of the tunnel. John squinted, trying to work out where Sherlock was.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock hissed from behind Elspeth, starting to untie her ropes. She nodded.

The other man – who he quickly recognised to be Liang, Soo Lin's brother – attacked Sherlock from behind, looping a scarf around his neck, and Sherlock cried out as the scarf tightened, tugging at it. As they struggled, Elspeth's eyes went back up to the sandbag. She whimpered.

Shaking off the other man, Sherlock crouched behind Elspeth again, struggling with her bonds. Liang pulled Sherlock away and John realised that his friend wasn't going to get away in time, struggling to get up; he managed to get a few steps towards Sherlock before falling over onto his side.

Elspeth stared up at the sandbag and then at the crossbow. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Flailing, John managed to get one foot free and kicked it upwards, feeling it collide with the crossbow. The crossbow shifted, twisting slightly to the left, and the arrow was fired, soaring across the tunnel. It buried itself into Liang's stomach.

Sherlock gasped for breath, stood up and looked around. They heard footsteps as Shan ran away, but Sherlock didn't chase after her. Instead, he unlooped the scarf from around his neck and crouched in front of Elspeth, reaching up to gently brush the tears away from her cheeks. He undid her gag, pulling it down.

"It's alright," he assured her. Elspeth choked back a sob. "You're going to be alright, it's over now."

While Sherlock undid Elspeth's ropes, John pushed himself up on his elbows, having managed to undo his own bonds. He smiled at Sarah, who stared back at him in shock.

"Don't worry," he assured her wearily. "The next date won't be like this."

John climbed to his feet and untied Sarah's ropes. Elspeth sobbed quietly, rubbing her sore wrists.

"Bloody idiots," she muttered. "I don't even look like John."

And despite everything, John laughed. He put his arm around Sarah, who rested her head on his shoulder, and Sherlock kept his hand on Elspeth's shoulder as he rung Dimmock.

Elspeth reached up and wiped the tears off her cheeks. She stood on shaky legs, leaned against Sherlock and looked mournfully at the now dead Liang, frowning.

* * *

"I'm _fine_," Elspeth insisted stubbornly, scowling at the bright orange shock blanket the ambulance put around her shoulders. "I don't need this –" she threw it off. "_stupid blanket._"

Sarah put up less of an argument, wearing the blanket and letting John put his arm around her shoulders, walking her outside. Spotting Sherlock at the end of the tunnel, Elspeth stormed away from the medics, ignoring their protests, and joined him.

"You're right," she grumbled. "Those shock blankets are not cool."

"I thought you liked them."

"Not when they're forcing you to wear it." Elspeth bit her bottom lip, looking over at John and Sarah. "Do you think we've scared her off?"

"Hopefully," Sherlock muttered.

"Dad."

"What?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow innocently and Elspeth turned away to hide her smile.

"You were late, by the way," she told him.

"I'd say I arrived at the perfect time."

"I'd say the perfect time is before I got put in front of a crossbow with the arrow pointing directly at me."

"You didn't get hurt, did you?" Sherlock retorted. Elspeth shook her head. "I don't see why you're complaining."

"The amount of concern you display is truly shocking," she replied sarcastically. Sherlock glanced down at her and, certain that no one was looking, hugged her. He kissed the top of her head.

"Of course I was concerned," he murmured. He would never say so, but Elspeth was Sherlock's world; the thought of her getting hurt was probably his worst fear.

"Dimmock's over there," Elspeth pointed out. "Do we have to talk to him?"

"We probably should."

Elspeth sighed, trailing after Sherlock when he strode towards Dimmock.

"We'll just slip off. No need to mention us in your report."

"Mr Holmes . . ."

"I have high hopes for you, Inspector," Sherlock said, surprising Dimmock and Elspeth. "A glittering career."

"I go where you point me," Dimmock said. Sherlock smiled smugly.

"Exactly."

Dimmock smiled ruefully, watching Sherlock stride away, before calling out, "hey, kid."

Rolling her eyes, Elspeth turned around. "Yeah?"

"Maybe I'll see you in a few years," he said. It wasn't a threat, it was compliment; slowly, Elspeth realised that he was suggesting that one day she, Elspeth Holmes, could fill her father's shoes. She hesitated slightly before smiling back.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Maybe."

"I'm going to take Sarah home," John said as Elspeth walked over, his arm still around Sarah. "Make sure she gets back alright."

"It was nice meeting you," Sarah said. Her voice trembled slightly and she forced herself to smile at Sherlock. "Thank you for . . . saving us."

"I wouldn't thank me, you weren't in any immediate danger," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock," John warned. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock smiled back at Sarah.

"You're welcome. I promise not to let you get caught up in mine and John's business again."

Sarah looked like she didn't quite know what to say, so she smiled at Sherlock again before turning to Elspeth.

"It was nice to meet you as well, Elspeth," she said with slightly more sincerity.

"You too," Elspeth said awkwardly. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Maybe . . . see you around."

Sarah's small smile grew slightly and John looked at Elspeth with a grateful look in his eyes before they both walked away, down the street where they could get a cab.

"You really don't like her, do you?" Elspeth asked Sherlock under her breath.

"No."

She laughed quietly. Sherlock and Elspeth walked down the street in silence, Sherlock hailing a cab for them. Neither of them said anything during the journey home, though Elspeth was more than aware of the glances Sherlock kept shooting her way.

Most teenagers went out and got drunk. Not Elspeth. She got put in front of a crossbow as a way of getting information from someone who wasn't even her father. The thought made her smile to herself.

"What are you two doing home so late?" Mrs Hudson scolded when they walked into 221B, wearing her dressing gown so she looked decent. "Honestly, Sherlock, what are you like?"

"Sorry Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said sincerely, grinning at his landlady. She tutted affectionately, wished them both a good night and retired to her bed.

Sherlock felt no need to sleep that night, sitting in his armchair with his book, and Elspeth went to her bed silently. Before long, however, she trailed back into the living room with her duvet wrapped around her skinny shoulders and her pillow hugged against her chest, looking very small and vulnerable.

"Can I sleep down here tonight?" she asked, standing in the doorway.

"If you want. I can't imagine the sofa is very comfortable."

"I don't mind."

Sherlock gestured towards it and Elspeth made a makeshift bed on the sofa, propping her pillow up with a cushion and spreading the duvet out to lie under. She lay down, curled up and gazed at her father.

"Were you scared?"

"Of what?"

"That we could've got hurt," Elspeth said quietly. Lowering his book, Sherlock raised his eyebrow at her.

"You should sleep," he told her.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. Shut your eyes and go to sleep."

Elspeth smiled to herself, remembering how Sherlock used to carry her to bed when she was a little girl and too stubborn to admit that she was tired. He'd let her stay up for as long as she could manage and, when she was too tired to even keep her eyes open, he would scoop her up in his arms and put her to bed.

She was far too old for that now, obviously, but knowing that Sherlock was in the same room as her made her feel safer about going to sleep.

"Dad . . ."

"Yes, Elspeth?"

She smiled again. He only called her Elspeth when she was in trouble or he was being exceptionally stern.

"Could you read to me?"

It was a childish request, she knew, but hearing her father's voice was something that always soothed her off to sleep. Sometimes he sung, most of the time he read.

Looking at her and meeting her wide, hopeful gaze, Sherlock realised that he couldn't say no. He rose from his seat, dragged a kitchen chair to the sofa so he wouldn't have to perch on the edge and turned his book back to the first page. Elspeth smiled up at him.

"Thank you, Dad," she said sweetly.

"Close your eyes."

Elspeth felt far more relaxed as she shut her eyes, listening to Sherlock's voice read from the book in his hands. Her eyelids started to feel heavy and his voice began to distance itself from her until, before long, she was fast asleep.

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, SJBHasADayPass, ALollie, Guest, Starcrier, Adrillian1497 and nakari ash for reviewing! Yes, Elspeth took Sarah's place again but I thought it would more logical for Shan to threaten Sherlock's daughter's life rather than Sarah . . .

On a brighter note, my fanfiction blog (demolition-lover-14-fanfiction) has turned one today! As a celebration, I now accept any submissions, questions, fan submissions; anything I am sent I will respond to! So please feel free to pop along and leave a cheeky message in my inbox, because you'll have my eternal love and gratitude!


	14. Chapter 14

_**14.**_

When John finally got back to 221B, he saw the living room door was ajar and lingered in the doorway, peering in. Sherlock sat with his back to him, his head bent over a book, and Elspeth was fast asleep on the sofa.

"Hi," John said quietly, pushing the door open.

"Hello."

"Is she alright?"

"Mild separation anxiety," Sherlock explained, glancing at Elspeth. She stirred slightly. "She'll be fine tomorrow morning."

John sat down in his armchair, pressed his hands together and leaned forwards. He looked across the room at Elspeth, smiling at how peaceful she looked.

Just earlier that night, her life had been put in danger, all because of a stupid impression. John sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said. Sherlock looked up in surprise. "for putting her in danger . . . you do know I would never let anything happen to Ellie?"

He didn't say so, but even though he hadn't known her for long, John couldn't help but feel fond for Elspeth. He didn't have a big family and he looked at Elspeth as a sort of niece, like it was his duty to help Sherlock protect her.

"I know," Sherlock said. His eyes lowered, lingering on Elspeth. "Unfortunately, in my line of business, Ellie will always be in danger."

"Have you . . . would she be safer with her mother?"

Sherlock stiffened. "No."

He said it so fiercely that John knew not to question him any further. John couldn't help but wonder about Elspeth's mother, a woman that neither Sherlock nor Elspeth ever mentioned. He couldn't find any evidence of her existence in 221B either. No photos, no cards, nothing. It was strange.

"Alright," John said tiredly. "I'm going to bed. See you in the morning."

"Night," Sherlock muttered. His eyes didn't waver from Elspeth and, for some reason, it made John smile.

* * *

"Two operatives based in London," Sherlock said. He, John and Elspeth strode down the street, towards the bank. "They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. One of them helps himself to something: a little hairpin."

"Worth nine million pounds," John said flatly. He couldn't understand how one such trivial accessory could be worth so much money. Elspeth wondered what it would be like to have a hairpin worth nine million pounds.

"Eddie Van Coon was the thief. _He_ stole the treasure when he was in China."

"How do you know that?" Elspeth asked, screwing her nose up. She looked more awake and alert than she had done since the case started. Her legs felt a bit stiff from being curled up on the sofa though. "Not even the killers knew that.

Sherlock smiled back smugly. "Because of the soap."

John stopped and stared at Sherlock blankly. Elspeth frowned.

"Oh!" she said excitedly, her face lighting up with realisation and racing after Sherlock. John looked around, wondering if he was the only one who hadn't caught on to their train of thought, before giving up and following them into the bank.

"Where are you going?" he asked when Sherlock started to walk down the corridor.

"I need to talk to the P.A," Sherlock said, turning around so suddenly that Elspeth bumped into him. "Sebastian's expecting you in his office."

"We'll meet you by the front," Elspeth promised. She grinned at him and then ran down the corridor after Sherlock, leaving John standing in the corridor.

As they made their way to Amanda's office, Sherlock took out his phone and started to dial a number. Elspeth looked at him.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock didn't answer, holding the phone to his ear. They stopped outside Amanda's office, just out of her line of sight. Elspeth huffed and leaned against the wall.

"He bought you a present," Sherlock said suddenly. It took Elspeth a few seconds to realise that he wasn't talking to her. "A little gift when he came back from China."

"How did you know that?" Amanda asked, unaware that Sherlock had moved behind her.

"You weren't just his P.A., were you?"

Amanda turned in surprise and Sherlock put his phone into his pocket, walking around the side of the desk. Elspeth stood in the doorway.

"Someone's been gossiping."

"No."

"Then I don't understand. Why . . . ?"

"Scented hand soap in his apartment. Three hundred millilitres of it. Bottle almost finished."

Amanda frowned in confusion. "Sorry?"

"I don't think Eddie Van Coon was the type of chap to buy himself hand soap – not unless he had a lady coming over. And it's the same brand as that hand cream there on your desk."

Elspeth looked at the expensive bottle of hand soap on Amanda's desk. She raised her eyebrows.

"Look, it wasn't serious between us. It was over in a flash. It couldn't last, he was my boss," Amanda said after a moment of awkward silence, her eyes flickering towards Elspeth.

"What happened? Why did you end it?" Sherlock probed.

"I thought he didn't appreciate me. Took me for granted. Stood me up once too often," Amanda explained sadly. "We'd plan to go away for the weekend and then he'd just leave, fly off to China at a moment's notice."

"And he brought you a present from abroad to say sorry." Sherlock's gaze focused on the pin in Amanda's hair. "Can I . . . just have a look at it?"

Amanda hesitated, looking at Sherlock's outstretched hand, and then carefully removed the pin from her hair, placing it into his palm. She held her hair in place with her other hand.

"Said he bought it in a street market."

"Oh, I don't think _that's_ true," Sherlock said with a hint of amusement in his voice. "I think he pinched it."

"Yeah," Amanda said, laughing softly. "That's Eddie."

"Didn't know its value, just thought it would suit you."

"Oh? How much is it worth?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Nine million pounds."

Amanda stared at Sherlock for a few seconds, like she couldn't quite comprehend what he had told her, and her eyes suddenly widened with shock. She took the pin back from Sherlock, her hands shaking.

"Oh my God!" She stumbled to her feet, staggering backwards. Elspeth grinned. "Oh my . . . nine million!" she screamed hysterically, running down the corridor. Leaning against the desk, Elspeth folded her arms across her chest.

"Well done Dad," she said. "You just made that woman's day."

"You told her then," John said, strolling into the office.

"What was your first clue?"

Taking an envelope out of his pocket, John handed it to Sherlock.

"The cheque is in your name," he explained. "I think you should hold onto it."

Sherlock could barely supress his grin as he took the envelope from John, and Elspeth bit her lip trying to stop herself from laughing. The moment she caught Sherlock's eye, however, she burst into hysterical laughter, her sides aching because she laughed so much. Sherlock chuckled quietly and even John giggled slightly, shaking his head at the silliness of it all.

"I don't know about you guys," Elspeth said. "but I'm starving."

"I could do with some lunch, actually," John agreed, looking at Sherlock.

"What day is it?" he asked Elspeth.

"The day you get something to eat." Elspeth suddenly grinned wickedly. "How about Chinese?"

Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at her and Elspeth giggled. Suddenly, she jumped up and darted out the office, quickly followed by Sherlock chasing after her. John stood in the doorway, watching incredulously as Sherlock grabbed Elspeth from behind, his fingers digging into her sides and making her squeal with laughter, trying to get away.

"Are you three still here?" Sebastian asked good naturedly, looking at Sherlock and Elspeth.

"Sorry," John said quickly. "We're just leaving." He hesitated before adding, "did . . . did you know Ellie's mother?"

"Her mother? Nope. Girls at uni were always getting pregnant, it's hard to keep track of who had slept with who. Unless you were Sherlock, of course."

With a smug smile that made John like him a little less, Sebastian walked back down the corridor the way he had come. Sherlock had let go of Elspeth, whose pale cheeks were flushed pink, and he had a gleam in his eyes that John didn't see very often.

"Come on, John," Elspeth called down the corridor. "It's lunchtime!"

Ducking out from underneath Sherlock's arm, she then darted down the corridor ahead of them, disappearing from sight when she rounded the corner. Sherlock rolled his eyes and waited for John.

"She's a funny girl," John said with a small smile. Elspeth didn't bother to wait for them before hopping onto the escalator.

"Hilarious," Sherlock said dryly.

"I know you two are talking about me!"

John caught Sherlock's eye and they both looked away to hide their grins.

* * *

Elspeth loved Sundays.

She loved it that she could sleep all morning without having to worry about alarms or deadlines. She could wake up late, spend the day in her pyjamas and draw in front of the rubbish day time telly she had a strange fondness of. It hadn't been long since John moved in, yet they'd all established a routine for Sundays; Sherlock would experiment, John would read his paper and frown over the crossword, and Elspeth would focus on her art. Sometimes Mrs Hudson invited them all down to her flat, where they'd enjoy a nice home cooked roast together. She always made too much, though, so they'd have the left overs the following Monday.

"Morning," Elspeth said softly, wandering into the living room with a large jumper over the tank top she wore to bed.

"Morning," John said. Sherlock didn't look up from his newspaper. "Sleep well?"

"Great." Elspeth grinned. "What's for breakfast?"

"Whatever you can find in the cupboards, we need to go shopping again soon."

Reminded of their last venture, Elspeth laughed and wandered through to the kitchen. She searched through the cupboards for several minutes before eventually giving up, telling John and Sherlock that she was going to see if Mrs Hudson had anything she could eat.

Sherlock folded the paper he had been reading in half, put it down on the table and picked up another one. John looked at the front page of the one Sherlock had put down.

**WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLION-HAIR?**

The pun was awful. John made a mental note to show it to Elspeth.

"Over a thousand years old and it's sitting on her bedside table every night," he commented.

"He didn't know its value," Sherlock said. "didn't know why they were chasing him."

"Hmm. Should've just got her a lucky cat."

Sherlock smiled briefly, looking away with a distant gleam in his eyes.

"You _mind,_ don't you?"

"What?"

"That she escaped – General Shan. It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."

"It must be a vast network, John, thousands of operatives. You and I, we barely scratched the surface."

"Barely scratched the surface of what?" Elspeth asked, walking back into the living room with a bowl of cereal Mrs Hudson had poured for her. "What are we scratching?"

"The network," John explained. Elspeth screwed her nose up.

"Whatever that means," she muttered. "Mrs Hudson said she's making us all lunch, by the way."

John smiled; he did enjoy Mrs Hudson's home cooking.

"You cracked the code, though, Sherlock, and maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that he knows it."

"No. No. I cracked _this_ code. All the smugglers have to do is pick up another book."

"We could make our own code," Elspeth said with a grin. "A secret, consulting detective crime fighting code that no one else knows!"

"Well that rules out Pig Latin," John mumbled. Elspeth stuck her tongue out at him.

"So," Elspeth said. "When are we going?"

"Going?" Sherlock repeated, lowering his newspaper and raising an eyebrow.

"Y'know, hunting after Shan and all that jazz. That's usually what we do, isn't it?"

"No. Not this time."

"But –"

"Elspeth."

"Fine," she grumbled quietly, eating another spoonful of cereal.

Smiling, John looked out of the window, spotting a young man in a hooded jacket spray the back of a tall black box that dispensed parking permits. After he had finished his tag, the man then ran away, and though Sherlock and Elspeth were oblivious, John couldn't help but smile even more.

* * *

"Without you – without your assistance – we would not have found passage into London. You have my thanks," Shan said in a humble manner, sitting in front of her computer with her image being transmitted.

**M: GRATITUDE IS MEANINGLESS**

**M: IT IS ONLY THE EXPECTATION OF FURTHER FAVOURS**

"We did not anticipate . . . we did not know this man would come – this Sherlock Holmes. His daughter too, she is smart . . ." her face filled with concern. "and now your safety is compromised."

**M: THEY CANNOT TRACE THIS BACK TO ME**

"I will not reveal your identity," Shan promised sincerely.

**M: I AM CERTAIN.**

Unseen by Shan, the red light of a rifle's laser sight appeared on the centre of her forehead. A single gunshot pierced through the silence of the room.

* * *

Thank you ALollie, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, labyrinthloverxxx, Bookworm45669, Starcrier, nakari ash, SaphireBlue78 and Goodbye Mr Holmes for reviewing!

I did in fact put wife instead of life in my last author's note - my apologies, I have gone back and corrected the mistake! And yes, we're moving onto The Great Game; believe me when I say I am incredibly excited. I do have a few plot twists up my sleeve!


	15. Chapter 15

_**15.**_

He sat at a table by the window, one the large ones that stretched from one end of the wall to the other so they could both watch the world go past, and ordered their drinks, knowing that she wouldn't be long. Checking his watch, he saw that she was already five minutes late.

The sound of someone rapping on the window made Mycroft Holmes look up, smiling when he saw Elspeth on the other side. She grinned back, waved enthusiastically and disappeared, striding into the café seconds later.

"You summoned," she said, dropping into the seat opposite him. The air was cool outside and she wore a dark coat over her thick jumper, her pale cheeks tinged pink from the wind. The waiter put their drinks down and Elspeth thanked him.

"I wanted to see my niece," Mycroft replied calmly. "Hardly a summoning now, is it?"

Elspeth opened her mouth to retort when the waiter returned, placing a large slice of chocolate cake in front of her. She thanked him again, picked up her fork and looked at Mycroft suspiciously.

"You've bought me cake."

"You skills of observation are improving, I see."

"Why have you bought me cake?"

"You're always so suspicious," Mycroft said, smiling at Elspeth over his cup. She narrowed her eyes.

"With good reason. What are you after?"

"A nice catch up with my only niece was all I wanted."

"And?" Elspeth prompted. She picked up glass, sipping her fizzy drink through the straw and raising her eyebrows slightly. "Dad's coming back today, if that's what you're after. You're welcome to come over."

It was Mycroft's turn to raise an eyebrow. Elspeth grinned and ate another piece of cake, looking out of the window. She liked spending time with Mycroft. She especially like winding him up. They both knew Sherlock wouldn't be pleased to see his brother when he got back from Belarus, where he was taking a case.

"Have you considered your university options yet?" Mycroft asked, steering the conversation into a safer territory. Elspeth huffed.

"Don't start," she complained. "It's all the teachers have been going on about in college, it's doing my head in."

"You're smart enough to do a degree in psychology –"

"No university will accept an application for undergraduate psychology when I take three art subjects as A-levels," Elspeth interrupted.

"Do you know that for certain?"

"Don't you dare tamper with my applications," Elspeth said, pointing an accusing finger at him. "I'm getting because they want me, not because you've paid them off. I'm only a first year anyway. Why do I have to worry about universities?"

"It's never too early to consider your future."

Elspeth's mouth was slightly open as she screwed her nose up and raised her eyebrows, staring at Mycroft with such contempt that he tried not to laugh. She was so like Sherlock.

"So," she said as she finished her cake, picking up her glass to slurp the remains of her drink in a way that she knew would annoy Mycroft. "is that everything? Or are you going to take me on a trip around London that ends with me carrying home loads of shopping bags?"

"I'm afraid not, I have a meeting to attend," Mycroft said, checking his watch. "Do you need a lift home?"

"Nah, it's alright. I've got some shopping to do anyway."

Mycroft paid and walked Elspeth outside, stopping to kiss her cheek.

"I'll see you soon," he promised. Elspeth smiled up at him.

"Not if I see you first," she joked. Mycroft watched her stroll down the street and turn the corner before getting into the dark windowed car waiting for him. He'd never tell them, but Mycroft Holmes worried about his only brother and niece.

* * *

The smiley face on the living room wall had been sprayed on by Elspeth just before Sherlock left for Russia; she had moaning that the room needed brightening up, all while tossing the spray can from one hand to the other. Looking down at it, she had grinned, jumped on the sofa and sprayed a large circle on the wall. A pair of eyes and a wide smile completed the new addition to the wall and though Mrs Hudson had complained profusely, the landlady didn't scrub it off like she threatened to.

Sherlock sprawled out across his armchair, glancing towards the smiley face briefly before picking up his pistol and pointing it towards the smiley face. There were already two bullet holes in it, shot while Elspeth was out and John was with Sarah; without even looking at the wall, Sherlock fired two more shots at the smiley face.

Turning his head, Sherlock then shot a third time and was firing the fourth bullet when John and Elspeth ran into the room, both covering their ears. Elspeth had been in her room, the sound of gunshot making her fall off her bed in shock.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" John yelled furiously.

"Bored," Sherlock said sulkily.

John stared at him in disbelief. "What?"

"Bored!"

Sherlock sprung up from his seat; John instinctively pushed Elspeth back so she was shielded by his body. Switching the pistol to his right hand, Sherlock turned towards the smiley face and shot at it again. He swung his arm behind his back, twisted it to his right and fired at the wall again from behind his back.

"Bored!" Sherlock said angrily. "_Bored!_"

John hurried across the room and Sherlock allowed him to snatch the gun from his hand, glaring at the smiley face on the wall. John quickly slid the clip out of the gun.

"That took me ages to do," Elspeth grumbled, her ears ringing.

"Please," Sherlock snapped back. "It took you five minutes. Ten at the most."

Elspeth scowled at him. Ignoring her, Sherlock walked past John, who was locking away the gun, and continued to glare at the wall.

"Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them."

"You'd probably blow up the whole of London," Elspeth muttered.

"So you take it out on the wall."

"Ah," Sherlock said, running his fingers along the painted smile. "the wall had it coming."

He turned sideways and flopped onto the sofa dramatically, his head landing on the cushion at one end.

"What about that Russian case?" John asked.

Sherlock pushed the arm of the sofa with his feet, shoving himself in a slightly more upright position. Elspeth continued to glare at him and flopped into his armchair, swinging her long legs over the arm.

"Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"Ah, shame," John said sarcastically, walking into the kitchen and throwing his arms into the air when he saw the mess on the table. It was covered in papers and notes and Elspeth's art materials; one of her tubes of paint was open and dripping onto the floor. "Anything in? I'm starving."

John opened the fridge door and slammed it shut again. Slumping, he lowered his head and took in a deep breath before slowly opening the door. On the shelf was a man's head, cut off at the neck. He stared at it for a couple of seconds and quietly closed the door again.

"It's a head. A severed head!"

"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock replied.

"Me too," Elspeth piped up with a smile in John's direction.

"No, there's a head in the fridge," John said, walking into the kitchen.

"Yes."

"A bloody head!"

"Well, where _else_ was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock asked. "You don't mind, do you? I got it from Bart's morgue, I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death." He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the laptop. "I see you've written up the taxi driver case."

"Uh, yes."

"A Study in Pink. Nice."

"Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone – there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

As John spoke, Sherlock picked up one of Elspeth's magazines from the coffee table and flipped it open.

"Erm, _no._"

"Why not?" John asked. "I thought you'd be flattered."

Sherlock lowered his magazine, glaring at him. "Flattered? 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'"

Elspeth, who had been watching the scene unfold with a wary look in her eyes, bit her lip as she glanced at John, waiting for his reaction.

"Now hang on a minute. I didn't mean that in a –"

"Oh, you meant "spectacularly ignorant" in a _nice_ way. Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister –"

"I know," John said quietly.

" – or who's sleeping with who –"

"Whether the Earth goes round the Sun," John added. Elspeth snorted and quickly hid her grin when Sherlock glared at her.

"Not that again. It's not _important._"

"Not impor . . . it's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?"

"I know it," Elspeth said cheerily.

Sherlock pressed the heels of his palm into his eyes. "Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."

"Deleted it?"

Swinging his legs around to the floor, Sherlock sat up to face John.

"Listen." He pointed to his head with one finger. "This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful, _really _useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

John looked at him for a moment.

"But it's the _solar system_!"

Elspeth laughed and Sherlock buried his head in his fingers.

"Oh, hell! What does that _matter_? So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots." Sherlock paused to ruffle his hair with both his hands, glaring at John. "Put _that_ in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world."

Like a petulant child, Sherlock threw the magazine back onto the coffee table and lay on the sofa, turning over with his back to John. He pulled his dressing gown around him while curling up into a ball.

John looked away. He pursed his lips.

"Dad?" Elspeth tried. Sherlock ignored her. "Ok, we've lost him."

Rolling his eyes, John stood up and walked towards the living room door. Elspeth's eyes followed him.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, looking at John over his shoulder.

"Out," John said tightly, putting his jacket on. "I need some air."

He walked through the living room door just as Mrs Hudson came up, both of them apologising to each other quickly. Sherlock scowled and pulled the cushion nearer to the back of the sofa.

"Hi Mrs Hudson," Elspeth called. Sherlock turned his head to acknowledge her existence and looked away again.

"Have you two had a little domestic?" she asked as she carried a few shopping bags to the kitchen.

"Yeah," Elspeth said.

Flailing to get himself upright, Sherlock got up from the sofa and took the shortest route to his destination, walking over the coffee table and going to the window.

"Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there," Mrs Hudson continued. "He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."

Sherlock watched as John crossed the road. Elspeth got up from her chair and joined him by the window.

"Look at that, Mrs Hudson," he muttered. "Quiet, calm, peaceful. Isn't it _hateful_?"

"Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder – that'll cheer you up."

Elspeth smiled over her shoulder at Mrs Hudson; only she could describe a murder as 'nice'.

"Can't come too soon," Sherlock said wistfully.

Mrs Hudson smiled back, but her smile quickly disappeared when she saw the damage to the walls Sherlock had inflicted. Threatening to add it to his rent, she stormed back downstairs. Elspeth giggled.

Moving to the centre of the room, Sherlock turned and grinned back at the smiley face. Elspeth rolled her eyes fondly at him just as a massive explosion went off in the street behind them, breaking the windows and hurtling them both across the floor.

* * *

"Sherlock! Ellie!"

Running up the steps, John halted to a stop, glancing towards the bordered up windows. His gaze quickly turned to Sherlock, who was sitting in his armchair and holding his violin to his chest, and then rested on Elspeth, who looked up from the canvas she was painting on by the fireplace. She smiled back at him.

"Hi John."

Mycroft, the reason for the annoyed look on Sherlock's face, glanced at John and nodded in acknowledgement.

"I saw it on the telly. Are you okay?" John asked.

"Hmm? What?" Sherlock looked around at the mess of broken glass and scattered paperwork like he had forgotten about it. "Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently." He plucked a violin string and turned to Mycroft. "I can't."

"Can't?"

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time."

"Never mind your usual trivia," Mycroft sneered. Elspeth rolled her eyes, adding shadow to the painting. "This is of national importance."

"How's the diet?"

"_Fine._ Perhaps _you _can get through to him, John." At the mention of his name, John looked away from the windows. "I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

"If you're so keen, why don't _you _investigate it?"

"No, no," Mycroft said, shaking his head. "I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time – not with the Korean elections so . . ." his voice trailed off when Sherlock, John and Elspeth raised their heads to gaze at him. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this – it requires . . . legwork."

"No," Elspeth said dramatically. "Not the legwork!"

"How's Sarah, John?" Sherlock asked abruptly. "How was the lilo?"

"Sofa," Elspeth said at the same time as Mycroft corrected, "sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa."

Sherlock smiled briefly at Elspeth, who grinned back, then looked John up and down. He accepted his mistake as graciously as Sherlock could when it came to his brother.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became . . . pals. What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

"I'm never bored," John said, noticing the dark look Sherlock threw at Mycroft. "Ellie's an absolute delight to live with, of course."

Elspeth grinned again.

"Good. That's good, isn't it?" Mycroft stood up and picked up the folder that was on the table, holding it out to Sherlock. When his brother refused to accept it, Mycroft then handed it to John. "Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?"

"Seems the logical assumption."

"But you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident."

Sherlock smirked.

"The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system – the Bruce-Partington Programme, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

"That wasn't very clever," John sniggered.

"It's not the only copy," Mycroft said sternly. "But it is secret. And missing."

"_Top_ secret?" Elspeth asked.

"Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Sherlock looked up calmly. "I'd like to see you try."

"Think it over." Sherlock didn't look overly impressed by Mycroft, who turned his back on him and held his hand out to John. "Goodbye John. See you _very_ soon."

As a way of saying goodbye, Sherlock began to repeatedly play a short irritating sequence of notes, continuing to play until Mycroft had left the room. Grimacing in his brother's direction, Sherlock lowered the violin.

"Why'd you lie? You've got nothing on – not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

"Because he's a child," Elspeth muttered distractedly. Sherlock glared at her.

"Oh, I see. Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

Sherlock turned his head and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything his phone started to ring. He irritably whipped his bow down, put it on the seat next to him and fished his phone out of his pocket.

"Sherlock Holmes." He paused, listening for a moment. "Of course. How could I refuse?" Sherlock stood up and switched off his phone, heading for the door. "Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?"

"If you want me to."

"Of course," Sherlock said, pulling on his coat. He smiled. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

The two strode out of the living room, leaving Elspeth sitting in front of her canvas, and she huffed. Seconds later, Sherlock appeared in the doorway again.

"Aren't you coming?" he asked. Elspeth grinned back, throwing her paintbrush down.

"Hell yeah!"

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Starcrier, Guest, Adrillian1497, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, nakari ash, Goodbye Mr Holmes and Bookworm45669 for reviewing!


	16. Chapter 16

_**16.**_

"You like the funny cases, don't you?" Lestrade asked, leading Sherlock, John and Elspeth across to his office. "The surprising ones."

"Obviously."

"You've love this. That explosion . . ."

Sherlock paused to briefly glare at Sally Donovan as he walked past her desk. She glowered back at him.

"Gas leak, yes?"

"No."

"No?" Elspeth repeated. "What was it then?"

"Made to look like one," Lestrade explained, much to everyone's surprise. Sherlock frowned. Elspeth couldn't understand why someone would blow up a building and make it look like it was an accident. "Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box," he continued, walking into his office. Sherlock looked at the envelope on the desk. "a very strong box and inside it was this."

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asked.

"It's addressed to you, isn't it? We've X-rayed it," Lestrade added when Sherlock reached for the envelope. "It's not booby-trapped."

"That's reassuring," Elspeth muttered, perching on Lestrade's desk.

Picking up the envelope, Sherlock took it across the room to another table with a lamp on it. He held the envelope close to the light as he examined either side carefully.

"Nice stationery. Bohemian."

"What?"

"From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

"No."

Sherlock looked closely at the writing. "She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold – iridium nib."

"_She?_" John repeated.

"Obviously."

"Obviously," Elspeth echoed in an uncanny impression of Sherlock, making Lestrade smile.

Sherlock picked up the letter opener from the desk and carefully slit open the envelope, looking inside. His mouth dropped open slightly in surprise as he reached in and took out a pink iPhone. Elspeth stared at it.

"But that's – that's the phone, the pink phone," John said.

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like . . ." Sherlock stopped, turning around to look at Lestrade as he realised what the other man had said. Sally walked in to the office and put some files on Lestrade's desk, one of which Elspeth picked up and started to flick through. "The Study in Pink? You read his blog?"

"Course I read his blog! We _all_ do. Do you really not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?"

Sally sniggered, Sherlock glared at her and John looked down in embarrassment. Elspeth bit her lip.

When Sally left, Sherlock turned his attention back to the phone.

"It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new," he said, looking at the connection sockets. None of them had scratches around them. "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it_ look_ like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership."

John tried to ignore the accusatory look Sherlock gave him over his shoulder. Sherlock switched the phone on and immediately got a voice alert.

"_You have one new message._"

The message played but there wasn't a voice, just the sound of five short pips and one long one.

"Is that it?" John asked after a short silence.

"No. That's _not_ it."

An image loaded onto the phone screen and Lestrade peered over Sherlock's shoulder at it. The picture was of an unfurnished room with a fireplace on one wall. The wallpaper was peeling, a tall mirror was propped up against the wall and a smaller mirror stood on the mantelpiece.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!" Lestrade said incredulously. Elspeth jumped down from the desk and looked at the image, frowning.

"I know that place," she said quietly, but no one seemed to hear.

"It's a warning," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

"A warning?"

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Six pips. They're warning us it's going happen again."

"I know that place," Elspeth repeated.

"Hang on," John said, following Sherlock as he strode out of the office. "What's going to happen?"

"_Boom!" _

"Dad!" Elspeth yelled. Slowly, Sherlock, John and Lestrade turned to face her. "I know that place," she repeated calmly. "It's 221C, remember? We looked at it before we moved in."

"I know," Sherlock replied, smiling and walking out of the office. Elspeth stared at him incredulously.

"Then why _didn't you say so?_"

* * *

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat," Mrs Hudson said, handing Sherlock a set of keys while he examined the padlock attached to the front door of 221A. He took the keys, unlocking it.

Sherlock looked closely at the keyhole. "The door's been opened recently."

"No, can't be. That's the only key."

Elspeth didn't point out that someone could've easily made a copy of the keys, like she did when they first moved in. Mrs Hudson didn't know she'd done it.

"I had a place once when I was first married. Black mould all up the walls . . ."

Paying no attention to her, Sherlock, John and Lestrade strode past Mrs Hudson while she rambled on. Elspeth gave her an apologetic look and followed them down the stairs.

"Oh . . . _men_!" Mrs Hudson said in exasperation.

Sherlock pushed open the door of the living room and walked inside. The room looked exactly as it did in the photo, but with one exception; there was a pair of trainers placed neatly in the centre of the room, their toes pointed towards the door.

"Shoes," John said slowly.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Elspeth muttered, rolling her eyes.

Sherlock started to walk towards them but John held out a cautionary hand.

"He's a bomber, remember?"

He paused. Slowly, Sherlock continued towards the shoes, crouching down in front of them. He leaned forwards, lowered his body down and moved closer to the shoes. Just as his nose was about to touch the tips of the toes, a phone started to ring.

Elspeth jumped. Sherlock did as well, shut his eyes and stood up. Pulling off his glove, he took the pink iPhone out of his pocket and looked at the caller I.D, which read NUMBER BLOCKED. He hesitated slightly and then answered the call.

"Hello?"

On the other end of the phone, a shaky breath was drawn before a woman spoke.

"H-hello . . . sexy."

John and Lestrade exchanged confused looks. Elspeth bit her lip.

"Who's this?" Sherlock asked.

"I've . . . sent you . . . a little puzzle . . . just to say hi."

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"

"I-I'm not . . . crying . . . I'm typing . . . and this . . . stupid . . . bitch . . . is reading it out." The woman on the other end of the phone sobbed again.

"The curtain rises," Sherlock said softly.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, what did you mean?" John demanded.

"I've been expecting this for some time." "Twelve hours to solve . . . my puzzle, Sherlock . . . or I'm going . . . to be . . . so naughty."

The phone went dead. Lestrade swore quietly under his breath, running his hand through his hair, and John could only stare at the phone in Sherlock's hand.

"What the hell?" Elspeth finally asked, breaking the silence.

"We need to go to St Bart's," Sherlock announced. "Now. Let's go."

"I'll catch you up," Elspeth said distractedly, feeling her phone vibrate in her pocket and scowling at the screen when she took it out. "There's something I need to do."

Sherlock picked up the shoes, striding out of the room with Lestrade and John close behind, and Elspeth made sure that they were far away before answering the call.

"Stop calling me," she hissed. "Just leave me alone."

Hanging up with more force than was necessary, Elspeth pocketed the mobile and ran up the stairs. She hesitated at the door of 221A, glancing at the front door, before continuing up to 221B. She went straight to her bedroom, threw her phone onto her bed and pried open a loose floorboard.

Elspeth had a variety of things that she wanted to hide from anyone who happened to wander into her room – Sherlock often sprung to her mind when people asked who would walk into her room uninvited. There were photos, sketches, a penknife and other unmentionable items. She pushed the small box of heavy sleeping pills to the side and reached for the set of keys hidden away.

"One, two, three," she counted, touching each key briefly. "four, five . . ." Her voice trailed off and she let out a sigh of relief, holding the fifth key up to the light. It was the key to 221C she'd had copied. When Sherlock mentioned that the lock had been opened recently, Elspeth felt the irrational fear that someone had somehow stolen her copy.

Even so, the thought of someone breaking into Mrs Hudson's flat to get to the keys didn't put Elspeth at ease.

Her phone vibrated on the bed, shortly this time so she knew it was a text she had received, not a call. Putting the floorboard back down, Elspeth scrambled to her feet and reached for her phone.

**HURRY UP – SH.**

Smiling at the text Sherlock had sent her, Elspeth put her phone in her pocket, picked up her satchel and bounded out of her room.

It didn't take her long to reach St Bart's. Slipping past the woman at the reception was easy and no one seemed to pay any attention to the teenage girl making her way to the morgue; most of the people working there had seen her with Sherlock, or sitting in Molly's office.

Unsure as to where Sherlock would be, Elspeth made a quick detour.

"Hey Molly," she said cheerfully, gently knocking on the open door and leaning against the doorway.

"Ellie, hi!" Molly said, looking a bit flustered as she turned in her seat to beam at the younger girl, who noticed that Molly wasn't alone like she usually was. Perched on the desk was a dark haired man with a cafeteria coffee in his hand, looking back at Elspeth almost nervously. "Oh, Ellie, this is Jim. Jim, this is Ellie I told you about."

"Oh yeah," Jim said in a London accent that didn't quite sound natural. "Hi, I've heard a lot about you."

"It's nice to meet you," Elspeth replied, shaking his hand. His palm was sweaty and Elspeth saw an alarming amount of personal grooming on him. He was gay, he had to be.

"Jim is my new boyfriend," Molly said proudly. Elspeth cocked an eyebrow.

"Then it's _very_ nice to meet you," she said pleasantly. "Molly, have you seen my Dad? About this high, mad hair, wears a coat that makes him look a bit like a serial killer?"

Molly laughed. "He's in the lab. He had a pair of trainers?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right . . . ok, thanks Molly, I'll see you later."

With a grin and wave, Elspeth wandered down the corridor to the lab. When she walked, Sherlock was sitting in front of the microscope and John had his hand inside her father's jacket pocket.

"Oh," she said, laughing. "Am I interrupting something?"

John just about kept control of his temper as he took Sherlock's phone out and Elspeth had to bite her bottom lip to stop herself from laughing, sitting on a stool next to Sherlock.

"Text from your brother," John said.

"Delete it."

"Delete it?"

"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it. You took your time," Sherlock added in Elspeth's direction. She shrugged.

"I had stuff to do."

"Well Mycroft thinks there's something to be done," John said, reading the text. "He's texted you eight times. Must be important."

"Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

"His what?"

Sherlock raised his head in exasperation.

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"

"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die."

"What for?" Sherlock lifted his head again. "This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"

John looked at Elspeth in disbelief and she gave him a small, almost apologetic shrug, looking away. The computer beeped and Molly walked into the lab.

"Any luck?" she asked.

"Oh yes!"

Molly went to look at the computer screen just as the door opened again, Jim stopping when he saw everyone gathered around the computer.

"Oh sorry, I didn't . . ."

"Jim, hi! Come in, come in."

Sherlock looked at Molly briefly, running his eyes over her body and making an instant deduction, then turned his attention back down to the microscope.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes and . . . uh . . . sorry."

"John Watson," John supplied with a hint of annoyance. "Hi."

"Hi. Hi again," Jim added with a timid smile in Elspeth's direction. She forced herself to smile back. He then looked at Sherlock, gazing at him admiringly. "So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"

He walked closer to Sherlock and John was forced to take a step backwards to make way for the other man.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance."

Molly and Jim tittered in a way that set Elspeth's teeth on edge. She liked Molly, she really did, but watching her make a fool of herself in front of Sherlock annoyed her a bit. Maybe it was because she felt sorry for her.

Sherlock glanced at Jim. "Gay."

Molly's smile faded. "Sorry, what?"

"Nothing." Sherlock smiled at Jim. "Um, hey."

"Hey," Jim said softly, almost reverently as he continued to stare at Sherlock with awe. Lowering his hand, he knocked a metal dish to the floor and scrambled to pick it up again. "Sorry, sorry!"

John looked away and Sherlock glanced up with irritation, watching as Jim put the dish back on the table. Scratching his arm, he then wandered back to Molly.

"Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

"Yeah!"

"Bye," Jim said softly, looking at Sherlock. "It was nice to meet you."

Sherlock ignored him, so John broke the awkward silence and said, "you too."

Jim blinked at him, looking awkward, then turned and left the room. Molly waited until the door was shut before turning to Sherlock.

"What do you mean, gay? We're together."

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half," Molly said stiffly.

"Three."

"Dad," Elspeth warned quietly. Molly was a quiet, meek woman but that didn't mean she couldn't lose her temper. Sherlock was enough to make _anyone _lose their temper.

"He's _not_ gay. Why do you have to spoil . . . ? He's _not_."

"With that level of personal grooming?"

So she _did_ have reason to be worried about Jim's grooming. Elspeth smiled to herself.

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair," John said incredulously.

"You _wash_ your hair. There's a difference. No, no – tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubber's eyes. Ellie has them on occasion."

"I do not!" Elspeth protested. Sherlock ignored her.

"Then there's his underwear," he continued.

"His _underwear_?" Molly repeated.

"Visible above the waistline – very visible, very particular brand."

"A very dashing colour as well," Elspeth added, earning herself a furious glare from Molly.

"That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here –" Sherlock lifted up the card that Jim had left under the dish. "– and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly stared at him for a moment before turning and running out of the room. Sherlock looked surprised by her reaction.

"Charming," John said. "Well done."

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"

"Kinder? No, no, Sherlock. That wasn't kind."

There was a short silence before Elspeth piped up.

"Did he really leave you his number?"

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, RosePhin, Smiling Dreams, AlieCat, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, Starcrier, nakari ash, Adrillian1497, Bookworm45669 and TimeLadyHolmes for reviewing! There's already been a small change in the story, did you spot what it was?

I probably won't update before then so I hope everyone has a brilliant Christmas! If there are any questions or anything you want to discuss, you can reach me via PM or via my fanfiction tumblr!


	17. Chapter 17

_**17.**_

Sherlock, looking fed up, put down Jim's card – Elspeth snatched it up immediately, laughing when she saw the number scribbled on it – and reached over, moving one of the trainers closer to John.

"Go on, then," he said. John looked up at him in surprise. "You know what I do. Off you go."

Sherlock sat back. He folded his arms expectantly.

"No."

"Go on."

"I'm not going to stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and disseminate –"

"An outside eye, a second opinion," Sherlock interrupted. "It's very useful to me."

"Yeah right."

"_Really_."

Elspeth looked up, also with an expectant gleam in her eyes, and John's eyes flickered between the pair, frowning unhappily.

"Fine." He cleared his throat, picked up one of the trainers and started to examine it. "I dunno – they're just a pair of shoes. Trainers."

"Good," Sherlock said.

"Umm . . . they're in good nick. I'd say they were pretty new –" Sherlock clenched his jaw in irritation and Elspeth smirked. " – except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while," John continued, oblivious to the sigh of relief Sherlock let out. "Uh, they're very eighties – probably one of those retro designs."

"You're on _sparkling _form," Sherlock praised. It may have sound a bit patronising to John but Elspeth could tell that it was sincere. He used to do the same for her when she was a kid. "What else?"

"Well, they're quite big, so a man's."

"But?"

"But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip. Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid."

Sherlock looked at him proudly. "Excellent. What else?"

"Uh . . . that's it. How did I do?"

"Well, John, really well. I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know . . ."

"I thought you did well," Elspeth told John with a smile, picking up one of the trainers while Sherlock held his palm up, wearing a sarcastic expression. Frustrated, John slapped the other trainer in Sherlock's hand.

"The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discoloured. Changed the laces –"

"Three times," Elspeth interrupted.

"_Four_ times," Sherlock corrected. Elspeth rolled her eyes. "Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema –" With a look of disgust, Elspeth slowly dropped the trainer she was holding. "Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old."

John, who had been slowly lowering his head onto the desk in despair, straightened up again.

"Twenty years?" he repeated.

"They're not retro, they're original. Limited edition: two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine."

"But there's still mud on them. They look _new_."

"Yeah, because all new shoes have flakes of dead skin on them," Elspeth said, still looking utterly horrified she'd touched them.

"Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it."

"How do you know?"

"Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

"So what happened to him?"

"Something bad," Sherlock said. He looked up at John. "He _loved_ those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy, wouldn't leave them go unless he had to. So a child with big feet gets . . ." Suddenly Sherlock trailed off, staring ahead of him. "Oh."

"What?"

"Carl Powers," Sherlock murmured softly.

"Sorry, who?"

"Carl Powers, John."

"What is it?"

"It's where I began."

* * *

"Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid – champion swimmer – came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament and drowned in the pool. Tragic accident," Sherlock explained, the three of them sitting in the back of a taxi, and showed John the article on his phone. "You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?"

"But _you_ remember."

"Yes."

"Something fishy about it?" John asked.

"Nobody thought so, nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers."

"Started young, didn't you?"

"The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong, something I couldn't get out of my head."

"What?"

"His shoes."

"What about them?"

"They weren't there. I made a fuss. I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes . . . until now."

Sherlock was silent for the rest of the journey, lost in thought, and every time John glanced towards Elspeth, she was scowling at her phone and stabbing the screen; what John didn't know was that she was deleting unwanted texts.

When they reached 221B, Sherlock darted up the stairs and slid shut the kitchen doors, effectively shutting John and Elspeth out.

Huffing, Elspeth sat back in front of the canvas she'd left behind, pleased to see that the first layer of paint had dried so she could another. John looked at the painting out of interest. A photo of the view from the Shad Sanderson bank balcony was pinned to the corner for reference.

"It's good," John said when Elspeth glanced up at him. "Really good."

She smiled back and started to add shading to the building in the background.

While Elspeth painted, John paced back and forth, thinking about the woman who had rung Sherlock and the danger she was in. How could Sherlock and Elspeth remain so calm?

Finally, he slid open one of the kitchen doors. "Can I help?" he asked. Sherlock didn't react. "I want to help. There's only five hours left."

His phone sounded an alert. John took it out of his pocket, reading the text.

**Any developments? – MH.**

"It's your brother," John told Sherlock, even though he didn't ask. "He's texting _me_ now. How does he know my number?"

"Must be a root canal," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

"Look, he did say 'national importance'," John said, putting his phone into his pocket and walking into the kitchen. Sherlock didn't look up.

"How quaint."

"What is?"

"_You_ are. Queen and country."

"You can't just ignore it," John said sternly.

"I'm not ignoring it. I'm putting my best man onto it right now."

"Right. Good." John nodded in satisfaction, then looked at Sherlock, puzzled. "Who's that?"

"You are," Elspeth called across the living room. John turned and stared at her for a few seconds before then looking back at Sherlock.

"_Me_?"

"Mycroft likes you," Sherlock said, finally raising his head from his notes and giving John a fake smile, and when John glanced over his shoulder at her, Elspeth also smiled. He would never say so but Mycroft did, in fact, like John. He was doubtful to begin with, knowing how difficult living with Sherlock and Elspeth was, especially when they had one of their rows, but John proved himself to be quite the companion to Sherlock, pleasing Mycroft immensely.

"You might want to change though," Elspeth suggested, looking back at the canvas in front of her and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, unknowingly staining it blue. "They won't let you in without a tie."

"They probably won't let me in at all," John muttered under his breath.

"They will," she promised. "Just . . . don't flirt with Anthea, yeah? You've got a girlfriend now."

"I know I – I don't flirt with Anthea!"

Sherlock and Elspeth shared knowing smiles over John's shoulder. He gawped at them, stammering excuses, then threw his hands up in the air in exasperation and stormed upstairs to get changed. Elspeth laughed softly.

"We shouldn't tease him like that," she said. Her phone vibrated in her pocket and Elspeth took it out, scowling at the caller ID as she quickly ended the call. Glancing at Sherlock, she was relieved to see that he hadn't been paying attention. "Dad . . ."

"Not now, Ellie," Sherlock said, focused on the notes in front of him, and Elspeth bit her lip for a few seconds.

"Alright," she said softly.

She couldn't complain. There was a woman strapped to a bomb, waiting for them to solve the mystery of the trainers before she got blown up. What right did Elspeth have to worry Sherlock with her trivial worries?

Picking up a rag from the mantelpiece, Elspeth wiped the paint off her hands and put down her paintbrush, not caring that the dark blue paint then dripped onto the carpet by her feet. Mrs Hudson would clean it if she got pissed.

"Can I help?" Elspeth asked Sherlock. He didn't say anything. "Dad?"

Sherlock shushed her. Elspeth glowered at him.

"Fine," she muttered, getting up from her stool and picking up her hoodie from where it had been flung over the back of Sherlock's chair the other day. She didn't say anything else as she pulled it on over her jumper and strode out of the living room, storming past John when he walked down the stairs with a jacket and tie on.

"Ellie?"

She ignored him and, seconds later, John heard the front door slam. Mrs Hudson peeked out of her flat, frowning and tutting, complaining that young people had no respect for properties these days.

"Ellie's just stormed out," John said. He adjusted his collar slightly. "Is everything alright?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, everything's fine," Sherlock said distractedly, reaching for another piece of paper and comparing the notes on it to those in his hand.

"She looked annoyed."

"She may be suffering from PMS, it is near her time of the month."

It was a good thing that Elspeth wasn't there to hear that otherwise she probably would've slapped Sherlock.

* * *

Lying on her back at the top of the skate ramp with Raz on one side and her best friend Bonnie on the other, Elspeth lazily watched the smoke rise into the air with heavy lidded eyes, smiling to herself. Raz was smoking – nicotine or something more sinister, she wasn't sure, but it made her smile like a fool – and still had the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Next to Bonnie was a half full bottle of wine, which she'd taken from her parent's cellar before she met them.

"They won't notice," she'd said when Elspeth had question her about it. "and even if they do, they won't _care_."

"I wonder what it's like," Elspeth mused suddenly, still staring up at the sky. It was too dark to see the stars.

"What?" Bonnie asked.

"Having parents that care."

"Oh." Bonnie giggled. "Dunno. Don't really care. _Care_! Ha!"

Elspeth laughed like a loon and reached across her friend to pick up the bottle, taking a long drink from it. She grimaced slightly as the alcohol burned her throat, offered it to Raz and then craned her neck back to peer up at the clouds.

"I am _never_ going to be a parent," she said. Her words slurred slightly.

"Aw babe, I thought we were gonna get married!" Raz proclaimed, putting his hand over his heart. If his heart had been in his side.

"Of course we're getting married, we just can't have kids."

"Can we make them though?"

Elspeth laughed and climbed to her feet unsteadily, clinging onto the railing so she didn't go toppling over the side again. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she grinned widely.

"John!" she shouted. "Hey, John! Whoo-hoo! John!"

John, who had been striding past the skate park with his head down, minding his own business, looked up in surprise when he heard his name being called, turning around several times before finally spotting Elspeth.

"Ellie?"

Elspeth grinned and waved again. Even though he wasn't close, John could see how unsteady she was on her feet, his eyes narrowing when he spotted the bottle she snatched from Raz.

"Oh for God's sake," he muttered. "Elspeth, get down from there!"

"Make me!"

John recognised Raz and glared at the younger man. It took Raz several seconds to realise who John was and, when he did, he scrambled to his feet, toppling over the ramp and rolling down it until he landed in a small heap at the bottom. Bonnie laughed and rolled after him.

"Come on, Ellie," she called. "It's fun!"

Elspeth looked at John and he shook his head. "Don't you dare."

Glancing down at the ramp and considering whether following her friends in a similar way was a good idea, Elspeth sighed in disappointment and scooted down on her bottom. John hauled her to her feet.

"We're going home," he announced. Turning to Raz and Bonnie, he added, "you two should get home as well."

"Or what?" Bonnie challenged drunkenly. "You'll call our parents?"

Ignoring them, John managed to guide a tipsy Elspeth out of the park, get her into a taxi and ignored her drunken grumblings. She gave up eventually, resting her head against the window and shutting her eyes.

"She ain't gonna be sick, is she?" the taxi driver asked, glancing warily at Elspeth in the rear view mirror.

"Ellie?"

"Nope –" Elspeth popped the 'p'. "I'm not drunk . . . I'm _fine_."

"Yeah," John said. "Right."

When they reached 221B, John helped Elspeth out of the taxi. He grabbed her arm so she couldn't stumble away and helped her upstairs, keeping a hand on her elbow.

"Clostridium botulinum!" Sherlock yelled suddenly, slamming his hands against the kitchen table and making Mrs Hudson flinch, scurrying past John. Elspeth cringed slightly.

"It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!"

John stared at him blankly, one hand still propping Elspeth up by the elbow.

"Carl Powers!"

"Oh, wait, are you saying he was murdered?" John asked finally, wondering how long it would take Sherlock to realise that Elspeth was intoxicated.

"Remember the shoelaces?" Sherlock got up and strode to where the shoelaces were hanging. "The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns."

Elspeth looked like she couldn't stand for much longer. John quickly sat her down in Sherlock's vacated chair and she leaned forwards with her head in her hands.

"What – how – how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?"

"It's virtually undetectable. Nobody would have been looking for it."

Sherlock strode around the table to where his laptop was, his own website opened on the screen, and quickly typed:

**FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). **

He straightened up momentarily.

"But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet."

"Sherlock," John said quietly.

Sherlock ignored him, adding to the message:

**Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.**

Elspeth shut her eyes, letting herself drift off in her drunken state. She felt so tired suddenly.

"That's why they had to go."

"So how do we let the bomber know . . ."

Get his attention," Sherlock said, looking at his watch. "stop the clock."

"The killer kept the shoes all these years," John murmured, momentarily forgetting that there was a drunk teenager at the kitchen table. It didn't matter, however, because Elspeth had fallen asleep with her head in her arms.

"Yes. Meaning –"

" –he's our bomber."

The pink phone started to ring on the side table and Elspeth jolted awake again, glaring at it. Sherlock sped across the room, picking the phone up.

"Well done, you," the woman said, her voice shaking. "Come and get me."

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, Starcrier, AlieCat, Bookworm45669, Adrillian1497, nakari ash, TimeLadyHolmes and SaphireBlue78 for reviewing!

Did everyone have a good Christmas? Mine was absolutely fabby, a day of watching Supernatural season 8 with my Mum and then I cried hysterically at Doctor Who.

Ellie's mystery caller will be revealed, I promise!


	18. Chapter 18

_**18.**_

"I'm going to bed," Elspeth announced wearily, getting up from her chair and stumbling over her own feet, unnoticed by Sherlock. John murmured a good night as she passed but Elspeth was either too tired to notice or chose to ignore him. He liked to think it was the former.

Sherlock sat back down in front of his laptop, the phone on the table next to it, and John took his usual seat in his armchair, reaching for his own computer. Quietly, he went to his blog, reading over the latest entry.

**Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.**

When Sherlock had confronted him about it, John felt worried – guilty even, that he had upset him.

Now, however, it seemed the only appropriate way to describe him. What father didn't realise that his child was drunk? Worse, what kind of a father chose to _ignore_ his drunken daughter?

John glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was completely engrossed in his work. Elspeth had stormed out of the living room looking more than a bit unhappy and John later found her in the skate park, getting drunk with her friends. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to work out that Elspeth was upset about something. What though?

"I'm going to bed," John said. Sherlock didn't say anything. "Night."

Sherlock remained silent and John debated on whether or not to mention Elspeth to him before finally deciding not to. Elspeth wasn't his daughter. She was Sherlock's concern.

Even so, that didn't stop him from wanting to talk to her. He stood outside Elspeth's door for a few seconds, hesitating before knocking.

There was a grumble, a groan and the sound of shuffling footsteps on the floor before the door opened, and Elspeth stared at John sleepily, her unruly hair tumbling over her shoulders.

"Yeah?"

"Did I wake you up?"

"_Yes._"

"Are you alright?" John blurted out, then realised what a stupid question it was. Elspeth frowned and stared at him in confusion.

"Erm . . . yeah, I guess," she said, rubbing her eye with the heel of her palm. "Are you?"

"Yes, yes. I –" John cleared his throat awkwardly. "I just wanted to say that if you ever need to talk . . . I'm here," he finished lamely.

"John," Elspeth said cautiously. "are we having . . . the _talk?_"

"What? No, no!" His cheeks burned at the idea. John was a doctor so he dealt with that sort of stuff every day, but the idea of discussing it with Elspeth . . . he shook his head. "No, definitely not."

"Good, because you're way too late for that."

John stared at her.

"The _talk,_ John," she added hastily. "Not . . . y'know. I'm still . . . " Elspeth's voice trailed off and she shrugged uncomfortably. "I'm not sexually active," she finally declared, knowing there was no point in beating around the bush. John gawped at her.

"Right, good – not that it's any of my business but . . . good," he said, nodding and shuffling awkwardly. He couldn't deny it, he was protective of Elspeth. "I'm just saying that if you ever need to talk because you don't feel like you can talk to Sherlock, I'm here."

"Ok," Elspeth said. "Thanks. I think." She yawned. "Can I go back to bed now?"

John nodded. "Night."

"Night."

Elspeth smiled sleepily at John, waved, and then shut the door.

"Well," he said to himself. "that wasn't as bad as I expected."

Leaning against her bedroom door, Elspeth shut her eyes and supressed a mortified laugh, her cheeks burning red.

"That," she said under her breath. "was the most embarrassing talk I have ever had."

* * *

"You look rough," was the first thing Lestrade said to Elspeth when she followed Sherlock and John into his office, receiving a half-hearted glare in return.

"I didn't sleep much," she lied quietly, flopping into a chair. John sat down next to her.

"We found that woman," Lestrade announced. "She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house."

Sherlock, who had been standing by the window with his fingers pressed together, turned and walked towards the desk.

"Told her to phone you," Lestrade continued. "She had to read out from this pager."

"And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off," Sherlock said.

"Or if you hadn't solved the case."

Sherlock walked back to the window. "Oh," he murmured to himself. "Elegant."

John raised his head and sighed in exasperation. Elspeth rolled her eyes.

"But what was the point? Why would anyone _do_ this?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh – I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored."

Elspeth thought back to the gunshot holes in the living room wall and rolled her eyes a second time. Just then, the pink phone beeped a message alert in Sherlock's phone, and John turned around to face him.

"_You have one new message_."

The phone sounded the Greenwich pips again, four short pips and one long one.

"Four pips," John said.

"First test passed, it would seem," Sherlock said. "Here's the second."

He turned the phone and showed the new photograph to the others. It was of a close-up of a car with its driver door open and the number plate clearly visible; John and Lestrade got up to take a closer look. Elspeth listened to the sound of a phone ring in the main office.

"It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll see if it's been reported."

Lestrade picked up his phone and Sally opened the door, holding out another phone.

"Freak –" Elspeth turned and glared furiously at her. "it's for you," Sally finished, faltering slightly under Elspeth's burning gaze.

Sherlock took the phone from Sally, resisting the urge to make a snide remark, and walked into the general office, shutting the door behind him so John and Elspeth wouldn't hear what he was saying.

"Hello?"

"It's okay that you've gone to the police," the voice of a frightened young man said.

"Who is this? Is this you again?"

"But don't rely on them," the man continued. His voice was shaking. "Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing."

The door opened behind him and John walked out, stepping close to Sherlock.

"And you've stolen another voice, I presume," Sherlock said.

"This is about you and me."

"Who _are_ you?" Sherlock asked. "What's that noise?"

"The sounds of life, Sherlock. But don't worry . . . I can soon fix that. You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time you have eight."

"Ok, great," Lestrade said down his phone. He strode out of the office. "We've found it."

Sherlock and John strode after Lestrade, leaving a reluctant Elspeth to tear herself from the chair and climb to her feet, trailing after them.

* * *

The car was parked close to the river, forensic officers in protective clothing working on the car as Lestrade led Sherlock towards it. John followed them with Sally by his side. Elspeth trudged after them.

Sherlock and Lestrade walked ahead, circling the car, and John stopped so suddenly – or maybe she just wasn't paying attention – that Elspeth bumped into him, grinning sheepishly when he gave her a bemused look.

"You're still hanging round him," Sally said.

"Yeah, well . . ."

Rolling her eyes, Elspeth stormed past Sally, joining Lestrade and Sherlock by the car. She grimaced slightly at the blood on the seats.

". . . yes, it's Monkford's blood," Lestrade was saying, not noticing Elspeth by his side. "The DNA checks out."

Sherlock found a business card in the glove compartment, took it out and straightened up.

"No body."

"Not yet."

"Get a sample sent to the lab."

As Lestrade walked away, Elspeth joined Sherlock's side and took the business card when he held it out to her, gazing ahead of him.

"Look sad," he said quietly.

"What? Why?"

Sherlock didn't reply, striding past Elspeth and towards the crying woman who had been talking to a police officer. Elspeth quickly followed him.

"Mrs Monkford?"

The woman, Mrs Monkford, turned to Sherlock and looked at him tearfully.

"Yes?"

John joined Sherlock and Elspeth. Mrs Monkford sighed.

"Sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen."

"No, we're not from the police, we're –" John began. Sherlock held his hand out, interrupting him.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said with a shaking voice. "Very old friend of your husband's. We, um . . ." Sherlock suddenly looked like he was trying not to cry. "we grew up together."

"I'm sorry, who?" Mrs Monkford asked, frowning at them. "I don't think he ever mentioned you."

"I mean, I just can't believe it. I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian – not a care in the world."

"Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months. Who are you?"

John struggled to keep his face neutral, looking away, and Elspeth bit her bottom lip as she stared down at her feet. Sherlock smiled tearfully.

"Really strange that he hired a car. Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."

"Oh, well, that was Ian! That was Ian all over!"

"No it wasn't."

Immediately Sherlock's fake persona dropped as he stared at Mrs Monkford.

"No it wasn't."

"Wasn't it?" he asked. "Interesting."

Sherlock turned and walked away, his hand on Elspeth's shoulder, leaving John to awkwardly smile at Mrs Monkford before hurrying after them.

"Why did you lie to her?" he asked, ducking under the police tape that Sherlock lifted for John and Elspeth.

"People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in. Bit premature – they've only just found the car."

"So . . . she murdered her husband?" Elspeth guessed, screwing her nose up slightly.

"Definitely not. That's not a mistake a murderer would make."

"Oh. Right."

"I see," John said. He frowned. "No, I don't. What am I seeing?"

They walked past Sally, who turned and called after John, "fishing! Try fishing!"

John gave Sally an exasperated nod and Elspeth frowned at her over her shoulder, wondering what on Earth the woman was talking about.

"Where now?" John asked.

"Janus Cars." Elspeth handed Sherlock the business card, who then passed it to John. "Just found this in the glove compartment."

"Yay," Elspeth muttered. "Family day out."

Sherlock gave Elspeth a bemused glance over his shoulder, hailing a taxi when they reached the street. She didn't say much on their way to Janus Cars, leaning her head against the window and gazing out of the window, and Sherlock glanced at her a second time. Something was wrong. Now wasn't the time to talk about it.

The receptionist of Janus Cars showed them to the owner's office – a middle aged man named Ewert, who greeted them all warmly. Elspeth and John, who had a small notebook on his lap, sat in the chairs in front of the desk while Sherlock stood by the window, gazing out into the forecourt.

"Mr Monkford hired the car from you yesterday," John said.

"Yeah. Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself!"

Sherlock walked over to the desk, pointing out at the forecourt. "Is that one?" he asked.

Ewert turned his head, Sherlock's eyes narrowing when he saw the tan line on the man's neck.

"No, they're all Jags. Yeah, I can see you're not a car man, eh?" Ewert joked, smiling at Sherlock. Elspeth glanced over her shoulder at the cars. She hadn't started her driving lessons but she loved the idea of having a car. Driving in London was horrible though; she knew from her experience of riding taxis.

"But, er, surely you can afford one – a Mazda, I mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, it's a fair point," Ewert agreed. "But you know how it is. It's like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the liquorice allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?"

Elspeth gave him a weak smile. Ewert scratched the top of his left arm and Sherlock looked at him for a moment, turning away as he walked towards the other side of the desk.

"But you didn't know Mr Monkford?"

"No, he was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him. Poor sod."

Sherlock suddenly turned back to Ewert.

"Nice holiday, Mr Ewert?" he asked.

"What?"

"You've been away, haven't you?"

"Oh, the – the – no, it's, er, sunbeds, I'm afraid, yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it, though – bit of sun."

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock asked abruptly. Elspeth stared at him incredulously. Sherlock hadn't smoked for weeks, he was using nicotine patches.

"What?"

"Well, I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change," he explained, offering Ewert a five pound note. "I'm _gasping_."

"Um, well . . ." Ewert fumbled for his wallet, opening it and searching through the notes stuffed into it, making a 'hmm' noise under his breath. "No, sorry."

"Oh well. Thank you very much for your time, Mr Ewert, you've been _very_ helpful. Come on, John, Ellie."

John thanked Ewert as well but Elspeth didn't bother, still confused as to why Sherlock had the sudden craving for a cigarette.

"I've got change if you still want to, uh . . ." John offered. Sherlock patted his arm.

"Nicotine patches, remember? I'm doing well."

Elspeth smiled, letting out a small sigh of relief.

"So what was_ that_ all about?"

"I needed to look inside his wallet."

"Why?" Elspeth asked.

"Mr Ewert's a liar."

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, katniss12, Starcrier, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, Hannah skywalker, Bookworm45669, simplemusings12, Goodbye Mr Holmes, nakari ash, AlieCat and Adrillian1497 for reviewing!

Happy New Year everyone!


	19. Chapter 19

_**19.**_

After a short trip to St Barts, where Sherlock received a phone call and a clue – Janus Cars, the clue was in the name – he, John and Elspeth met Lestrade at the police car pound, where Monkford's car waited.

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asked.

"How much? About a pint."

"Not 'about'. _Exactly_ a pint," Sherlock corrected. Elspeth screwed her nose up. "That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's but it's been frozen."

"Frozen?"

"There are clear signs. I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seats."

"_Who_ did?" John asked in exasperation.

"Janus Cars. The clue's in the name."

"Oh." Elspeth's eyes widened slightly. "The god with two faces!"

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed with a small smile in her direction. He turned to Lestrade. "They provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of a problem – money troubles, bad marriage, whatever – Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble – financial, at a guess, he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out."

"So if he disappeared and the hired car was found with his blood all over the seats . . ." Elspeth murmured thoughtfully. "_Oh_."

Sherlock smiled even wider at Elspeth and she beamed back at him, finally understanding everything.

"So where is he?"

"Columbia."

"_Columbia?_" Lestrade repeated incredulously.

"Mr Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Columbian peso note in his wallet and quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly."

"No one wears a shirt on a sun bed," Elspeth added quietly. Sherlock nodded.

"Plus his arm."

"His arm?"

"He kept scratching it. Obviously irritating him, and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia. Mrs Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars."

"_Mrs_ Monkford?"

"Oh yes. She's in on it too. Now go and arrest them, Inspector, that's what you do best." Sherlock turned to John. "We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved."

Spinning around, Sherlock led John and Elspeth away while Lestrade watched him incredulously, his mind still reeling at the information he had just been given.

"I am on _fire_!" Sherlock cried triumphantly. Elspeth rolled her eyes.

"Yeah," she muttered. "You're on fire."

* * *

"Right," Elspeth said, standing up and reaching for her coat. 221B was freezing because the windows were still boarded up, so she had been huddled under a blanket with a thick jumper on over her t-shirt, while Sherlock typed out a new message on his website. "I'm going to the chippy. Do you want anything?"

"Is it safe to go out on your own?" John asked in concern.

"Yeah . . . why wouldn't it be?"

"Someone's strapping explosives to innocent people for one thing!"

"I'll be fine," Elspeth scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Dad, do you want chips?"

Sherlock made an 'hmmm' noise that Elspeth took as a yes. Picking up his wallet, she opened it and took out his card, pocketing it. John waited until she was gone before he spoke again.

"You're really just letting her go out on her own?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"It's not safe!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not an idiot, John, Mycroft and I keep tabs on her," he said, raising his head to look at John. "Before you ask, no, she doesn't know so don't tell Ellie."

"What sort of tabs?" John asked instead.

"Phone, surveillance cameras, homeless network," Sherlock listed in a bored tone. John stared at him, frowned and then considered the lengths Sherlock went to so he could look after Elspeth. His mind went back to her drinking.

"You do know that Ellie got drunk?"

Sherlock frowned. "When?"

"Last night, Sherlock. She got drunk with her friends in a skate park and I saw her on my way back from Mycroft's. She was still drunk when we got home."

Sherlock stared at John with a look of confusion in his eyes, thinking back to Elspeth's behaviour the previous night. He'd barely paid any attention to her.

"She _was_?"

John stared at Sherlock incredulously for a few seconds, then shook his head and got up, storming into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

"She's your daughter!" he belted out suddenly, whirling around to face Sherlock again. "She's sixteen!"

"I know."

"Ellie shouldn't be drinking!" John cried. "There's something wrong and you didn't even notice! She is your _daughter_, Sherlock!"

Sherlock reclined his seat, looking rather calm for a man who was being shouted at, and raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Are you finished?" he asked. John looked like he wanted to punch Sherlock. "I will talk to Ellie tonight."

"You should've talked to her last night," John grumbled quietly.

"Would you have preferred it a man died last night because I neglected the case to talk to my daughter?"

"No, but – you know what? Forget it."

"You're obviously concerned, why don't you talk to her?"

"Because she's _your daughter!_"

Sherlock still looked annoyingly unconcerned that John was yelling at him about his daughter's welfare, so John turned his back on him and supressed the frequent urge to punch his friend. They sat in silence for a long time, waiting for Elspeth to return.

"I'm back!" she sung, bounding up the steps and swinging a carrier bag in her hand. The room filled with the smell of chips. She stopped, looking between Sherlock and John. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," John said quickly, standing up. "Do you want a hand with the plates?"

"Er, yeah, I guess," Elspeth said. She frowned at Sherlock and he grimaced slightly, giving her a small shrug. Rolling her eyes, she followed John into the kitchen. "You sure everything is alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, everything is fine, Ellie," John insisted, taking the last few clean plates from the cupboard and sighing at the pile of washing that had accumulated by the sink. "Someone needs to do the washing up."

"I nominate you."

"Why?"

"Because Dad wouldn't know to wash the dishes even if they got up and performed a musical number and I have work to do after dinner."

"We need to start a rota," John muttered under his breath. Elspeth grinned back brightly, taking two platefuls of chips through to the living room and handing one of them to Sherlock, who sniffed a chip suspiciously before deeming it acceptable, biting into it.

"They're not poisoned, don't worry," Elspeth assured him, covering her own chips with salt. "I even got them from that chippy you like."

"I know. They –"

"–always give you extra portions, I know. They give them to me as well now."

Elspeth smiled smugly, curling up under her blanket again with a plate of chips on her lap, eating them happily while John glowered at Sherlock across the room.

"I'm meeting Sarah for a drink," John finally said, standing up despite still having food on his plate. "See you later."

Pulling on his coat, John stormed out of the living room. Elspeth reached for his chips.

"What have you done now?" she asked.

"It's what I haven't done that he's angry about," Sherlock muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You were drunk last night."

"Took you long enough to realise," Elspeth quipped. She knew there was no point in trying to deny it.

"John is under the impression that I should talk to you about it."

"I went out, saw Bonnie and Raz, got tipsy, came home and went to bed. That's about it."

"You got drunk because there was something wrong."

"I did? Huh, I never knew that."

"Elspeth."

"Dad."

Sherlock and Elspeth stared at each other from across the room, both wearing expressions of exasperation and slight amusement, their eyebrows raised. Elspeth tilted her head to the side, looking rather interested by what Sherlock had to say.

When John had suggested – ordered was more like it – that Sherlock spoke to Elspeth, he hadn't taken into account that Elspeth could be incredibly difficult when she wanted to be. At that very moment, she was being _incredibly _difficult.

Sherlock could understand why Mycroft was always so annoyed with him.

"Ok," Elspeth finally said, sitting up. "We're having a serious talk. Do you want to know the truth, Dad? I got drunk because I am sick and tired of being a girl and getting drunk is my only way of fulfilling my true dream to become a unicorn."

"You're just being facetious now," Sherlock snapped back irritably.

"Yeah, I am," she agreed. "But at least being facetious is funny." And without another word, Elspeth got up from her seat, picked up the plate of chips and walked out of the room.

Thus ended what was meant to be a serious, father to daughter talk between Sherlock and Elspeth Holmes.

* * *

"You realise we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?" John asked, tucking into the large cooked breakfast in front of him. He'd been complaining all morning about being hungry and that Sherlock was dragging him around London without food, and when Elspeth joined in, Sherlock finally caved in. John ate another forkful of food, looking thoughtful. "Has it occurred to you –"

"Probably," Sherlock and Elspeth said in unison. Though Sherlock said it as if he was answering the question, his daughter chimed in rather sarcastically, not even looking up from her coffee. John glanced at her.

"No – has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes – it's all meant for you."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Yes, I know."

"Is it him, then? Moriarty?"

"Perhaps."

"Maybe he fancies you," Elspeth said, sipping her coffee. Sherlock glared at her.

The phone on the table beeped and Sherlock turned it on, the three of them listening to the three short Greenwich pips, followed by the longer tone. A photograph of a smiling middle-aged woman appeared on the screen.

"That could be anybody," Sherlock said in exasperation. Elspeth took the phone from him.

"Well, it _could_ be, yeah," John agreed. "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."

"How do you mean?"

"Lucky for you, Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly."

Standing up, John walked over to the counter and, smiling at the woman behind it, he picked up the remote to switch on the small television hanging on the wall. He switched the channels several times until the woman from the photograph appeared on the screen, partway through her make-over show.

Sherlock's attention was caught by the phone ringing. He snatched it from Elspeth, who scowled.

"Hello?"

"This one . . . is a bit . . . defective. Sorry. She's blind. This is . . . a funny one. I'll give you . . . twelve hours."

John sat back down next to Elspeth, frowning. Sherlock glanced at him.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I like . . . to watch you . . . dance."

Sherlock lowered the phone and dropped it onto the table, shaking his head at John. Elspeth bit her lip as her father turned to look at the TV, just as a news report began.

". . . continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince. Miss Prince, famous for her make-over programmes, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead . . ."

* * *

"Wait here," Sherlock said to Elspeth before striding into the lab, leaving her to stare at him in indignation.

"Sorry, Ellie, it's for your own good," Lestrade agreed. John offered her a sympathetic smile before following the two men inside the lab. Scowling, Elspeth flopped onto one of the plastic chairs outside.

"Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly. Did you see it?" Lestrade asked, leading them towards the still body of Connie Prince.

"No."

"Very popular. She was going places."

"Not any more. So, dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound." Sherlock looked at the deep cut between her right thumb and index finger. "Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream – good night Vienna."

"I suppose," John agreed thoughtfully.

"Something's wrong with this picture."

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong." There were several scratches on Connie's upper arm that looked like claw marks. Looking at her face through his microscope, Sherlock saw the tiny pinpricks on her forehead. "John?"

"Mmm?"

"The cut on her hand: it's deep, would have bled a lot, right?"

"Yeah."

"But the wound's clean – very clean, and fresh. Get _out,_ Ellie," Sherlock added without turning around. Elspeth, who had been lingering in the doorway, scowled and stormed back out of the lab. "How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

"Eight, ten days," John answered. Seeing Sherlock's grin, realisation dawned on him. "The cut was made later."

"After she was dead?"

"Must have been," Sherlock agreed. "The only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?" He looked at John. "You want to help, right?"

"Of course."

"Connie Prince's background – family history, everything. Give me data."

"Right."

"John," Sherlock called after him as John turned to leave the lab. "Take Ellie with you."

"There's something else that we haven't thought of," Lestrade told Sherlock.

"Is there?"

"Yes. Why is he _doing_ this, the bomber? If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"

Lestrade didn't notice that Sherlock kept his back to him, hiding the anxiety in his eyes.

"Good Samaritan," Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"Who press-gangs suicide bombers?"

"_Bad_ Samaritan."

"I'm – I'm serious, Sherlock. Listen, I'm cutting you slack here, I'm trusting you – but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me: what are we dealing with?"

Looking away thoughtfully, Sherlock smiled in delight.

"Something new."

* * *

Thank you katniss12, Bookworm45669, Starcrier, Tollandm, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Smiling Dreams, simplemusings12, AlieCat, Adrillian1497, nakari ash and Grievousorvenom for reviewing!

So. The Empty Hearse. Who else saw it? I couldn't help but work out where Elspeth would fit in the whole way through, it almost felt weird not seeing her . . .


	20. Chapter 20

_**20.**_

"So where are we going again?" Elspeth asked, her and John walking down a street. He hadn't given her much of an explanation as he had strode out of the lab earlier.

"Kenny Prince's house," John explained. He stopped to check the address scribbled in his notebook. "He's Connie Prince's brother."

"And Connie Prince is the dead woman?"

"Yeah. I think this is it. Now, remember to be nice – he's just lost his sister."

Elspeth snorted. "I'm nice," she scoffed, trailing after John when he walked up the driveway. "I'm _always_ nice."

John gave Elspeth a dubious look over his shoulder and knocked on the front door. A few seconds later, an attractive tanned, dark haired young man opened the door. He eyed John and Elspeth suspiciously, his plucked eyebrows arching slightly.

"Yes?" he asked. "Can I help you?"

"Hi, my name's John and this is my assistant Ellie," John quickly introduced himself, holding his hand out. "We're from the local paper, we heard about Connie Prince's unfortunate death and we were wondering –"

"I'm sorry, but Kenny Prince is not available for interviews," Raoul interrupted. He made to shut the door when a voice called out from behind.

"Let them in, Raoul." Kenny Prince, a man in his mid-fifties and a stylish purple shirt strode into view, smiling when he saw John. "Please, I would _love_ to do an interview. No one else has had the decency to approach me yet."

"Our paper likes the personal touch," Elspeth told him with a charming smile and a professional air to her voice. "We would hate to disrespect your sister's good reputation."

Rather reluctantly, Raoul opened the door wider, allowing John and Elspeth access into the beautifully decorated house. Compared to 221B, Kenny Prince's house was practically a palace. There wasn't any clutter or dirt or mess. Kenny led them through to the living room, which was just as ornate as the rest of the house.

"We're devastated," he said. Raoul stopped in the doorway, gesturing for John and Elspeth to go in. "Of _course_ we are."

Kenny reached the other side of the room and stood with his arm propped on the mantelpiece while John, looking rather uncomfortable, perched on the sofa next to the hairless cat wandering about. Elspeth took a seat in the armchair. She crossed one long leg over the other, tucked her hair behind her ear and clasped her hands together.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" Raoul asked. When John politely declined, he looked at Elspeth and she shook her head, thanking him nonetheless. Kenny smiled at the younger man.

"Raoul is my rock. I don't think I could have managed." Kenny looked down sadly. "We didn't always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me."

"We understand," Elspeth said sympathetically. "John has a sister, don't you, John?"

"Yeah – yes, yes, I do. I . . . understand," John said, uncomfortably removing the cat from his lap when it climbed on. The cat meowed loudly in protest. "Connie was very dear to the public as well."

"Oh, she was adored," Kenny said. "I've seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Routemasters and turn them into princesses."

The cat climbed back onto John's lap and he looked at it in frustration. Elspeth grinned at him from across the room.

"Still, it's a relief in a way to know that she's beyond this veil of tears," Kenny continued dramatically. John gave up on trying to deter the cat from sitting on his lap, holding it awkwardly as it started to purr contently.

"Absolutely," he agreed.

Kenny looked thoughtfully at the photo of Connie he had on his mantelpiece. It was a carefully framed photograph of her holding her TV award, beaming with pride. John looked down at her notebook.

"So her cause of death was –"

"Tetanus, they told me," Kenny interrupted.

"It's more common than people think. The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left un –" John looked up in surprise when Kenny suddenly plonked himself rather heavily onto the sofa next to him, staring at John with an intense gaze. Elspeth stared at them incredulously. " –treated," John finished.

"I don't know what I'm going to _do_ now," Kenny said.

John looked a bit nervous. "Right."

"I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely, but it's not the same without her."

Elspeth looked around with her eyes narrowed slightly. The house was lovely, but in her opinion, it completely lacked the qualities that made it a home. She felt a sudden longing to return home to 221B.

John fidgeted slightly, as if to get away from Kenny, but there wasn't enough room on the sofa to do so.

"Th-that's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth," he stammered. "You sure it's not too soon?"

"No."

"Right," John repeated.

Kenny continued to stare intensely at John as he murmured, "you fire away."

Elspeth had to bite down on her lip, _hard_, to stop herself from laughing hysterically. She was going to remember that moment for a very long time.

Meowing again, the cat jumped from John's lap and trotted across the carpet. John watched it, rubbing the side of his nose, and as he pulled his hand away again, he suddenly realised something. He quickly raised his hand and pretended to rub his nose a second time as he quietly sniffed his fingers. John looked at the cat again.

"Erm – I need to make a quick phone call, if you don't mind?" he asked, smiling nervously at Kenny.

"It's no problem, take as much time as you need."

John smiled nervously at Kenny and left the room, dialling Sherlock's number.

"Excuse me," Elspeth said with a small smile, quickly following John.

"I think I'm onto something. You'll need to pick up some stuff first. You got a pen?" John asked. "Ok, bring some sort of camera – no, something posh, it needs to convince him –" Elspeth gestured for John to give her the phone. "Hang on, Ellie wants to talk to you."

"There's a camera in my room that should do the job," she said without so much of a hello. "It's in the top drawer of my desk – the one by the window, Dad, not my bedside table, stay out of that." Elspeth turned her back on John for a few seconds, running a hand through her hair. "Ok, the tripod stand is in a bag in the corner, yeah, that one . . . flash . . . erm, ok, that might be in the bedside table." Grimacing at John, Elspeth rolled her eyes as Sherlock said something down the phone to her.

Finally, she handed the phone back to John, looking rather annoyed by her conversation with Sherlock. It seemed that lately all Sherlock and Elspeth seemed to do were argue or get on each other's nerves.

"I'll be there soon," Sherlock promised John before hanging up.

"Come on," Elspeth said with a small grin, lightly tugging on John's arm. "Your boyfriend is waiting for you."

* * *

"That'll be him," John announced when he heard the front door shut. Kenny, who had been primping in front of the mirror, running his fingers through his hair, turned around.

"What?"

Raoul showed Sherlock, who had a large bag over his shoulder and a long narrow case in one hand, into the room and Sherlock immediately strode over to Kenny.

"Ah, Mr Prince, isn't it?" he asked pleasantly.

"Yes," Kenny said shortly.

"Very good to meet you." Sherlock shook hands with Kenny, looking closely at Kenny's hand as they did so, and managed to get out an apology, "so sorry to hear about . . ."

"Yes, yes, very kind," Kenny interrupted.

"Shall, we . . . er . . ." John said vaguely. Elspeth started to get confused by all the voices; all three men were speaking at once. Shaking her head, she followed Sherlock to the sofa and took the tripod case from him while Kenny fiddled with his hair again.

"You were right. The bacteria got into her another way," John told Sherlock quietly. Sherlock smirked.

"Oh yes?"

"Right," Kenny announced, spinning around. "We all set?"

"Um, yes, can you . . . ?" John's voice trailed off and he gestured towards the mantelpiece. Kenny turned and posed. Sherlock thrust the camera into Elspeth's hands and she took a rapid procession of photographs of Kenny.

"Not too close," he complained. "I'm raw from crying."

The cat meowed by Sherlock's feet and he looked down in surprise.

"Oh, who's this?" Sherlock asked pleasantly.

"Sekhmet. Named after the Egyptian goddess."

"How nice. Was she Connie's?"

"Yes." John reached for the cat but Kenny beat him to it, picking the cat up. "Little present from yours truly."

"Sherlock?" John asked, looking frustrated. "Light reading?"

"Oh um . . ." Sherlock held up the flashgun he was holding and fired it directly in Kenny's face. Elspeth flinched. Her friend had shot the flashgun in her face a few months ago as a laugh. Elspeth hadn't been able to see properly for the rest of the day. "Two point eight."

"Bloody hell. What do you think you're playing at?" Kenny demanded furiously, squinting. Sherlock apologised and carried on firing the flashgun to keep Kenny's eyes shut while John rubbed his fingers over the cat's paws, sniffing them. Elspeth continued taking photos, adding to the chaos.

"You're like Laurel and bloody Hardy, you lot," Kenny complained. "What's going on?"

"Actually, I think we've got what we came for. Excuse us," John said.

Kenny looked at him in confusion. "What?"

Grabbing the case from the sofa, John called, "Sherlock, Ellie, we've got deadlines."

"Bye, it was nice to meet you!" Elspeth said brightly to Kenny, who stared at them incredulously.

"But you've not taken anything!" he yelled after them.

The three of them ignored Kenny, hurrying out of the living room and letting themselves out of the front door, all three giggling when they ran down the driveway. Taking the case from Sherlock, Elspeth packed away the camera. John chuckled in delight.

"Yes!" he said. "Oh yes!"

Sherlock smiled at him. "You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat."

"What? No, yes. Yeah, it _is_. It _must_ be," John insisted while Elspeth frowned in confusion. "It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant."

"Lovely idea."

"No, he coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet – bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have –"

"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm," Sherlock interrupted. "but it's too random and too clever for the brother."

"He murdered his sister for her money."

"Did he?" Sherlock asked. John looked at him.

"Didn't he?"

"No. Ellie? Any ideas?"

"I'm working on it," Elspeth said thoughtfully. Her mind went over the encounter with Kenny and Raoul and that _hideous_ cat.

"It was revenge," Sherlock told them.

"Revenge," John repeated. "Who wanted revenge?"

"Raoul, the houseboy," Sherlock replied. "Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally he had enough; fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so –"

"He killed her," Elspeth finished. She shook her head. "That's mad."

"What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?" John asked.

"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it." Sherlock strode ahead and John sniffed at his jacket. Elspeth self-consciously did the same, crinkling her nose up; she reeked of disinfectant.

"Raoul's internet records do, though," Sherlock added. "Hope we can get a cab from here."

John sighed in exasperation and Elspeth looked disappointed, stuffing her hands into her pockets as she huffed.

"I thought we were really onto something," she said miserably.

* * *

"Raoul de Santos is your killer," Sherlock announced, striding into the main office of Scotland Yard and brandishing a folder at Lestrade. "Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince – it was botulinum toxin."

"Botulinum toxin," Elspeth repeated under her breath, the words sounding funny rolling off her tongue. She tried again. "Botulinum toxin. _Botulinum toxin._" She wondered how fast she could say the two words without getting them jumbled up; it sounded like a great game.

Sherlock put the folder down on the desk, leaning close when Lestrade reached for it.

"We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself."

Picking up the folder, Lestrade walked towards to his office with Sherlock following. John stared at them in surprise.

It took Elspeth a few seconds to realise that she had been left behind. She quickly darted after them.

"So how'd he do it?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock thought back to the tiny pinpricks on Connie Prince's forehead. "Botox."

"Botox?"

"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum," Sherlock explained. "Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases."

"You have a contact at the Home Office?" Elspeth asked, raising her eyebrows. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Your listening abilities never cease to amaze me, Ellie."

Elspeth pulled a face when Sherlock turned his back on her again, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue. Lestrade smiled.

"He's been bulk ordering Botox for months," Sherlock continued, pointing to the folder.

John, who had been standing nearby, continued to stare at Sherlock, his expression becoming angrier as Sherlock spoke.

"Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose," Sherlock concluded. He was oblivious to John's rising anger.

"You sure about this?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course," Elspeth retorted. "When isn't he sure?"

"Alright, my office."

Lestrade turned to walk into his office and John stopped Sherlock when he started to follow. Elspeth hesitated slightly, her eyes darting between them.

"Sherlock, how long?"

"What?"

"How long have you known?"

"Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. _That_ was a mistake." Sherlock stepped towards Lestrade's office but John stopped him a second time.

"No, but Sherlock . . . the hostage . . . the old woman. She's been there all this time."

Elspeth's face paled at the thought, biting down on her lip. She had almost forgotten about the hostage – an old woman, blind and alone, Sherlock had told her when they left the café. They only had so many hours to save her.

Sherlock looked towards Elspeth and then at John, leaning closer.

"I _knew_ I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly. That gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!"

Sherlock strode into Lestrade's office. John pursed his lips together in annoyance.

"It's ok," Elspeth said softly. "He knows what he's doing."

Sitting at Lestrade's desk, Sherlock opened the laptop and loaded up The Science of Deduction website. John and Lestrade stood either side of him. Elspeth sat down on a chair at the other side of the desk.

Sherlock typed out a message, short and sweet:

**Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.**

He sent the message and the phone rang immediately.

"Hello?"

"_Help_ me," the old woman on the other end begged in anguish.

"Tell us where you are," Sherlock said. "Address."

"He was so . . . his voice . . ."

"No, no, no, no," Sherlock said urgently. Elspeth, who had been looking down at her hands absent-mindedly, lost in her own thoughts, looked up in surprise. She couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had sounded so _panicked_. "Tell me nothing about him. Nothing."

"He sounded so . . . soft."

There was a single shot and the phone line suddenly went dead.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock?"

"What happened?"

Seeing her father's expression, Elspeth straightened up in her chair and reached across the desk, grasping Sherlock's hand with her own. Sherlock, who had been staring ahead of him, biting his lip, looked up at the sudden contact, glancing down at her hand on his.

"Dad," she said quietly. Her voice trembled. "What happened?"

Realising something was wrong, Lestrade sighed. Slowly, Sherlock turned his hand over so he could clutch Elspeth's, holding on so tightly that it was almost as if he couldn't bear to let go.

Biting her lip, Elspeth closed her eyes.

* * *

Thank you Starcrier, Goodbye Mr Holmes, Scribbler95, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, bookaddict209, aorangeinboston, helenamaimi, Adrillian1497, Bookworm45669, iwanttobeaneverdeen, Guest and nakari ash for reviewing!


	21. Chapter 21

_**21.**_

Sherlock and John were sitting in silence in front of the TV when Elspeth shuffled into the living room. She'd barely slept that night, having nightmares about bombs and explosions and injections piercing her skin.

Shuddering at the thought, Elspeth went through to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee, drumming her fingers against the counter while she waited. She glanced over at the news report playing on the TV.

"The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people . . ."

Twelve. She shook her head and bit her lip.

"Old block of flats," John said over the report – ". . . is said to have been caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utilities company . . ." – while Sherlock frowned. "_He_ certainly gets about."

"Well, obviously I lost that round – although technically I did solve the case," Sherlock said, picking up the remote and muting the volume. There was a sharp bang as Elspeth slammed the cupboard shut.

"It isn't a game," she said furiously.

"_All_ of this is a game, Elspeth," Sherlock snapped back. "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

Elspeth glared at Sherlock and swore loudly when the hot water pouring from the kettle scalded her skin. Sherlock's head snapped up and he suddenly strode across the room, holding Elspeth's hand under the cold water.

"Well, usually, he must stay above it all," Sherlock explained. He didn't look up from Elspeth's hand. "He organises these things but no-one ever has direct contact." Reaching for a tea towel, Sherlock wrapped it around the burn, gently holding it in place.

Elspeth glowered down at her hand, quietly thanking Sherlock as she pulled away.

"What . . . like the Connie Prince murder – he – he arranged that? So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?" John asked incredulously.

"Novel," Sherlock commented with a hint of admiration in his voice.

Looking at him in disbelief, John turned to look at the TV screen again. Sherlock looked up and smirked when he saw Raoul being forced out of Kenny Prince's house by police, shoved into the back of a police car. Elspeth watched as well.

Glancing down at the pink phone, Sherlock frowned when it didn't ring immediately.

"Taking his time this time," he murmured.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked away. "Anything on the Carl Powers case?" he asked.

"Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection."

"Maybe his killer was older than Carl?" Elspeth suggested, unwrapping the tea towel from her hand and screwing her nose up at the slightly red skin on her hand, gently prodding it. It stung.

"The thought had occurred to me."

"So why's he doing this, then – playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?" John questioned. Sherlock smiled slightly.

"I think he wants to be distracted."

Laughing humourlessly, John got up from his chair and turned to face Sherlock.

"Well hope you'll be very happy together," he sneered.

"Sorry, what?"

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock – actual human lives!" John cried furiously. "Just – just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock snapped back irritably. Elspeth looked between the two of them anxiously, hoping that they weren't going to argue.

"Nope."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?" John asked.

"Yes, very," Sherlock retorted. "Is that news to you?"

"No." John smiled bitterly at his friend. "No," he repeated.

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock and John locked eyes, Elspeth looking at both of them with wide eyes, biting her lip. No one spoke. Elspeth didn't even dare breathe properly.

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock finally said. He didn't sound regretful though.

"That's good – that's a good deduction, yeah," John said sarcastically, still smiling angrily at Sherlock.

"_Don't_ make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

Sherlock sensed Elspeth freeze next to him, and she stared down at her feet. As a kid, Elspeth idolised her father; he was Sherlock Holmes, he solved crimes for a living. It was amazing, of _course_ Sherlock was her hero growing up. Now . . . now she wasn't so sure.

The pink phone sounded an alert, breaking the silence.

"Excellent!" Sherlock said. The phone sounded two short pips and one long one, a photograph of a river bank appeared on the screen. "View of the Thames. South Bank – somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. You check the papers and I'll look online . . ." Sherlock's voice trailed off when he turned around, halfway across the room, and saw that neither John nor Elspeth had moved. "Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help."

"I'll help," Elspeth said quietly. Sherlock looked over at John, who shrugged.

"Not much cop, this caring lark."

Elspeth didn't look at John, sitting down on the sofa and picking up the nearest newspaper, and John stared at Sherlock for a few seconds, finally realising that his friend would never change. Oblivious, Sherlock continued with his online search on his phone.

John sat down on the sofa next to Elspeth, who gave him an empathetic smile, and started going through the pile of newspapers on the coffee table.

"Archway suicide," he read.

"Ten a penny," Sherlock snapped back.

"Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington." John put the newspaper aside and picked up another one. "Ah. Man found on the train line – Andrew West."

"Nothing!" Sherlock cried in exasperation, finding no helpful reports in his search. Hitting speed dial, he held the phone to his ear and said, "it's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?"

* * *

On the South Bank of the River Thames, the tide had receded so that the bank was clear, the scene filled with police and forensic officers when Sherlock, John and Elspeth arrived.

Sliding on the stones, Elspeth's mind wandered to the previous summer, when she'd gone to the beach with Sherlock. He'd been reluctant to go but it turned out to be a great day.

"Do you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?" Lestrade asked, waiting by the body.

"_Must_ be. Odd, though –" Sherlock held up the pink iPhone. "– he hasn't been in touch."

"But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?"

"Yes."

Sherlock took a step back and took a long look at the man's body, which was lying on its back on a plastic sheet. Elspeth grimaced, screwed her nose up and bit her lip.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade inquired.

"Seven . . . so far."

"_Seven_?"

While Sherlock examined the body, Elspeth looked away, turning her head so she could watch the gentle movement of the Thames and pretend that there wasn't a dead man lying at her feet. John left her side, squatting by the body and holding the man's wrist as Sherlock straightened up, wandering back to where Elspeth stood.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, so Lestrade wouldn't hear. Elspeth nodded.

"He's dead about twenty-four hours – maybe a bit longer," John announced. He looked up at Lestrade. "Did he drown?"

"Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs." It was a poor attempt at making a joke, acknowledged by Elspeth with a small smile. "Asphyxiated."

"Yes, I'd agree. There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here."

"Fingertips," Sherlock said thoughtfully. Elspeth looked up at him and frowned, but didn't say anything. John stood up.

"In his late thirties, I'd say. Not in the best condition."

"He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data," Sherlock said, grinning. "But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake."

The lost Vermeer painting. Elspeth had heard about that; the news circulated throughout her art class like wildfire.

"We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates," Sherlock continued.

"Wait – wait – wait – wait – wait," Lestrade said incredulously, obviously lost. "What painting? What are you – what are you on about?"

"Haven't you seen the posters?" Elspeth asked, the first thing she'd said in a long time. "It's a Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago, and now it's turned up. It's worth thirty million pounds."

"Ok," Lestrade replied. He was slightly taken aback by Elspeth's knowledge. "So what has that got to do with the stiff?"

Sherlock grinned back. "_Everything_. Have you ever heard of the Golem?"

"Golem?"

"It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?" John asked.

"Jewish folk story. A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin – real name Oskar Dzundza – one of the deadliest assassins in the world." Sherlock pointed down at the dead man. "_That_ is his trademark style."

"So this is a hit?" Lestrade guessed.

"Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

"Like a snake," Elspeth piped up. "Only . . . snakes don't have hands, so not like a snake."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock with exasperation. "But what has this got to do with that painting? I don't see –"

"You do_ see_," Sherlock interrupted, equally as exasperated. "You just don't _observe._"

"All right, all right, girls, calm down," John said before they could start arguing. "Sherlock? Do you want to take us through it?"

Sherlock took a moment to respond. "What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much, just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal. Maybe he was going out for the night, but the trousers are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt."

"Cheap," Elspeth said with a slight grimace. Sherlock nodded.

"They're both too big for him, so some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie."

"Tube driver?" Lestrade guessed. Sherlock gave him a look that blatantly said Lestrade was an idiot.

"Security guard?" John asked.

"More likely. That'll be borne out by his backside."

"His . . . bum?" Elspeth raised her eyebrows at Sherlock, a grin slowly making its way across her face.

"Flabby," he said shortly, glaring at Elspeth. "You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died," Lestrade said.

"No – no – no, the buttons are stiff, hardly touched," Sherlock disagreed, shaking his head. "He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognisable, some kind of institution."

Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock took out a small ball of scrunched up paper and held it up.

"I found this inside his trouser pockets. Sodden by the river but still recognisably –"

"Tickets?" John interrupted, peering at the paper ball.

"Ticket _stubs_. He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check – the Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing." Sherlock pointed down at the body. "Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant?"

"He knew something about painting," Elspeth said, looking up at Sherlock. "Something that meant the owner couldn't sell it."

"The picture's a fake," Sherlock concluded with a nod. John stared at him with admiration.

"Fantastic," he said.

"Meretricious," Sherlock said, shrugging. He was still peeved from their earlier argument.

"And a Happy New Year!" Lestrade added, grinning sheepishly when John raised his eyebrows at him. Looking down at the body, John sighed.

"Poor sod."

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character," Lestrade said.

"Pointless," Sherlock scorned. "You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?"

Sherlock grinned. "Me."

Spinning around, Sherlock strode away. Elspeth also grinned, shaking her head fondly as she turned and chased after her father, and John muttered, "here we go again." With a final smile at Lestrade, he dutifully followed Sherlock.

* * *

"Why hasn't he phoned?" Sherlock asked irritably, glaring at the pink phone in his hand with frustration. "He's broken his pattern. Why?"

"Maybe he forgot," Elspeth muttered.

Ignoring her, a thought suddenly struck Sherlock and he leaned forwards. "Waterloo Bridge," he called to the cab driver.

"Where now?" John asked. "The Gallery?"

"In a bit."

"The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it?" This question was directed at Elspeth, who looked away from the window and nodded. "Why have they got hold of an Old Master?"

"Don't know. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data," Sherlock said shortly, barely forming proper sentences. Elspeth could tell he was in deep thought. She watched him take his notebook from his pocket and write something on the page before tearing it out, folding a bank note inside. "Stop," he called out to the driver.

John frowned and the cab pulled over. "What –"

"Come with me, Ellie," Sherlock said, opening the door. "Wait here, John, we'll just be a moment."

Sherlock got out of the taxi, vaulting over the railings on the edge of the pavement, and John watched in amazement as Elspeth mimicked Sherlock's actions, landing lightly on her feet on the other side. She grinned at him over her shoulder.

"Change? Any change?" a homeless girl sitting on a bench under the Waterloo Bridge asked when Sherlock and Elspeth trotted up the steps towards her.

"What for?"

"Cup of tea, of course."

"Here you go." Sherlock reached into his pocket and handed the homeless girl – who couldn't have been much older than Elspeth, he noted with a frown. "Fifty."

The homeless girl took it, beaming and thanking Sherlock.

Turning around, Sherlock walked away with Elspeth by his side. She glanced over her shoulder, watching the homeless girl unfold the paper and read whatever Sherlock had written.

"Investing?" Elspeth asked.

"How did you know?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "Lucky guess."

Sherlock looked down at Elspeth and smiled at her. She grinned back, raced forwards and leaped over the railings again, laughing with pure amusement. Sherlock smiled. Elspeth's laughter was infectious.

Vaulting over the railings a second time, Sherlock climbed back into the cab, where John was waiting for them with a slightly disgruntled expression, obviously unhappy that he had been left behind.

"What was all that about?" he asked. He'd seen Sherlock hand the homeless girl the note, though he didn't know how much money was tucked inside.

"He was investing," Elspeth said with a slightly smug smile. John frowned at her.

"Investing in what?"

"My future. I'm getting a pony next week."

John rolled his eyes, looking at Sherlock. Sherlock simply grinned at Elspeth.

"Now we go to the Gallery," he announced. Turning to John, Sherlock added, "have you got any cash?"

* * *

Thank you WerewolfHybrid31, helenamaimi, AlieCat, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Starcrier, Goodbye Mrs Holmes, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, bookaddict209, Bookworm45669, NaviRebel16, iwanttobeaneverdeen - why do I make your life so hard? I'm so sorry! - nakari ash and Lucy Moon-Walker for reviewing!

Answer time:

Sherlock and Elspeth are both arguing so much because this is a tense case for Sherlock, as we all know. Elspeth is struggling with the 'mystery caller' (who will be revealed soon, I promise!) and she's too stubborn to open up to Sherlock. Not to mention that they're similar in personality so they're bound to clash. I'm not afraid to say that Elspeth is also rather petulant when confronted, hence the stupid comments she makes when Sherlock and John try to have a serious conversation with her. It's more of a coping mechanism than anything.

Elspeth is the Scottish variant of Elizabeth. I chose the name to fit in with the unusual names of the Holmes boys. Originally, Elspeth's character was called Rosie.


End file.
